An Ironic Title
by Lizzy Lovegood
Summary: COMPLETE! A sequel to The Death of the Savior. It is the Boy Who Lived's funeral, one of the most publicized events in the wizarding world. However, to those who heard his will, he is more than a hero and they each have their memories of him.
1. Confessions of a Teenage Wizard

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own it (add a remark about Remus drools here).

Note: I know for a fact that there are many slash-lovers in the Harry Potter fanfiction community. However, if any statements seem to imply a relationship between Ron to any readers, then let me assure you that, in this fic, Harry and Ron's relationship in this is purely platonic!

**Chapter 1: Confessions of a Teenage Wizard**

"Anyone sitting there? Everywhere else is full." I remember him nodding, his inviting smile, his sparkling, emerald-green eyes and then me, me, Ron Weasley the youngest brother out of six of us, sitting down next to the famous Harry Potter. I remember that I had acted like a fan-girl at first, like they do now, well, used to do, anyway. Now they're just crowding around his casket, pretending like they knew him and all, trying to get a good view of his abs more like. Harry would have hated that, I know, would have shooed the lot of them away, he was always modest like that. He had acted modest on the train that first day, too, allowing me to sit with him, answering my questions (he wasn't as uncomfortable with his fame then, I guess), even buying me some food besides those sandwiches Mum made (corned beef-ugh!).

However, I had thought myself simply a passing fancy. I thought that Harry had been thinking, "alright, when is this weird redhead going to leave me alone?". I had thought that once we got off the train, Harry would at once befriend some of the richest and popular students there, leaving Ron Weasley to himself. I had felt like a great prat (nearly as bad as Percy) when I saw what happened later. Draco Malfoy offered him friendship, stuck out his great slimy hand for it, too. I expected Harry to take it and taunt me as Malfoy had, calling me "Weasel" and all that. But he didn't. In fact he insulted Malfoy right to his face that day! One of the best memories of my life, that, well, except for Malfoy the bouncing ferret, of course. However, what really made me feel bad was the way that _I _would have reacted to it. Suppose I was in Harry's position and he was in mine and Malfoy had offered me that - prominence and popularity - everything that I so loved, what would I have done? I knew what I would have done - I would have taken it immediately, licking Malfoy's shoes even (ugh, the thought grosses me out now). However, five years with Harry taught me that that isn't everything and I knew that by the end of my first year, I would have done the same thing Harry had (perhaps with a few reserves, but who says I have to be perfect?). That way, when I got my prefect's badge before the start of last year, I wasn't as scornful as I would have been. Why, if I hadn't met Harry, I probably would have been as pompous as Percy by now.

Harry was my best mate, he turned down popularity for the poor Weasley family, turned down everything that makes you important in this crazy world we live in and chose the other way, the way which turned out to be the right way. Even material things didn't seem to matter to him that much, why, he gave me his Firebolt and his two main mischief-making items right in his will. Not that he had much choice, he didn't really know anyone else who loved Quidditch, but still . . . and he gave me compliments along with that. "I do have real skill, don't I?" I thought after my part was read.

Not that I'm saying Harry's some sort of saint, though that's one of Malfoy's names for him. Why do you think he had the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauders Map, not just to keep them in his trunk all day, I can tell you that much! Harry, Hermione, and I, we were the Marauders of this generation, what with everything we've done (and quite a bit of it doesn't have to do with saving the wizarding world) and with Harry's temper that is quick to flare (I think my ears may be permanently damaged from all his yelling last year).

No, Harry was definitely not a saint, but he had the things that don't seem to count much in this world - but in the other they'll definitely tally them up - loyalty, bravery, kindness even to those who didn't deserve it sometimes, and love. Yes, especially love. At least that's what Dumbledore said, that it was his heart that saved him that day in the Ministry because Voldemort couldn't stand to possess someone whose heart was so infinitely pure. When I first heard that, I thought "pure, yeah, right! I guess they haven't heard of the time he cheated on that Transfiguration test." Even now it seems immature, because I think I've grown in these last few days, not just in inches (though Mum says that I've grown at least three inches since the end of school), but in knowledge. For Harry's pure in those bigger ways, in the whole scheme of things, not just a day-by-day type thing. Like when Sirius and Professor Lupin (though he wants to be called Remus now), were about to kill Peter. I know that I would have definitely let them kill that little rat (literally) and then fed that son of a bitch to Aragog (or maybe starving Blast-Ended Skrewts). But Harry didn't, he stopped them and I would have thought that Peter would have done something to repay that (but I guess I was hoping too much). Or when Harry tried to do a Cruciatus on Bellatrix Lestrange and he couldn't, and why? Because he didn't _really _want to hurt her, he didn't feel the need to cause pain as those friggin' Death Eaters do.

I know that Harry was really mad in his letter to Dumbledore and I can even understand why (when Dumbledore told us the prophecy I wanted to strangle him, but Remus beat me to it). However, if what Dumbledore says is true (and I'm sure it is - Dumbledore hasn't been wrong yet, except maybe with the Snape thing), then Harry wouldn't really perform the Cruciatus on Dumbledore, his heart is too pure for that. And he would never be able to do _Avada Kedavra _(I had no idea how he defeated Voldemort if he couldn't do that, but, hey, he's the Boy-Who-Lived).

No, he's not that angry, but he still went off and killed himself! Damn it, Harry, we were supposed to be with you till the end, mate. How could you do this to me and Hermione and Ginny (it's still hard to believe that he loved her). It's just not fair to those left behind, your heart may be pure, Harry, but sometimes you're an idiot. That's what a best mate would say, isn't it? He did so much and he still had more to do, he was supposed to graduate Hogwarts with me and I was supposed to be the best man at his wedding (to Ginny?) and vice versa with me (Hermione, I hope). He would be godfather for my kids and I would be it to his and he would teach the same lessons that he taught me (inadvertently, of course, because Harry isn't Dumbledore). But he went off and killed himself and no matter how pure his heart is and how great he is, that's just dumb.

I'm walking up the aisle to the casket now, Hermione already went up, she gave the fan girls one look and they fled (I love it when she does that). She held his hand for a bit, crying, then went back to her seat. I didn't really get that, but that's just the way girls are, I suppose. Harry always said that they should teach us the way girl's minds work at Hogwarts (would have been more worthwhile than Divination). I'm standing at the side of Harry's casket now, just looking at his dead body, his messy shock of raven-black hair, his blank emerald-green eyes, and his circular spectacles. Godric Gryffindor's sword is tucked next to him and I notice that it is somewhat bloodied (ah, so _that's _what he killed You-Know-Who with). He looks like some sort of war hero, but he's sixteen, goddamn it! It is then that I realize today's date - July 31st, Harry's birthday. I can't think of anything to say, I just hold his hand and let the tears spill down my face. I hear someone come up behind me, it's Ginny. I think the two need some privacy so I leave, whispering, "Happy Birthday, mate," as I go back to my seat.

Note: I hope you liked the chapter, I'm not sure if Ron's a bit OOC or not, just give me your thoughts - please! Next chapter - Hermione, which I like much better (then again, Hermione is my role model). J

Note: OK, I made this promise to myself that I'd never do this, but now I can't help it. PLEASE REVIEW!!! Seriously, I thrive off these things, I love to read reviews for my stories; they always cheer me up. Come on, when I'm happy I write more (oh, there's another thing I promised I would never do!). Ah well, just be happy I'm not asking for a certain number before I update again!


	2. Bookworm

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters (including Remus Lupin sigh). Everything belongs to Jo.

**Chapter 2: Bookworm**

All I know is that I am beyond sad, nothing can equal this, not one definition. Believe me, I've tried.

sad: Feeling or showing unhappiness, grief, or sorrow.

grief: Great sadness, especially as a result of death.

morose: Having a withdrawn, gloomy personality.

I suppose grief was the closest because of the death thing, but can that definition describe the deluge of emotions that is flooding my body right now? Can that describe how it feels like your world is falling to pieces because one of your best friends in the world has died? Can that describe my feeling that I should have done something and maybe then it might not have happened? Can that describe the feeling that when you look on his dead body in that bejeweled casket, you're sure he's going to hop up again and say that he was only joking? Because that's what I felt like. I was sure that while I was holding his hand and placing a rose on his chest, he would hop up and say, "Hey, Hermione. Man, that was a nice rest," while running a hand through his raven-black hair. It is one of the first times that books have failed me and I find that there is a Harry-sized hole in my heart that I can't fill with a thick tome.

I go back to my seat after holding Harry's hand as Ron is coming up now. I've always loved Ron, his tall, gangly frame, his red hair, and his casual personality are only a few of his redeeming qualities. However, I've never told him, instead I've made up for my fluster around him with quarrels. Yet we'd always come back together (and some of the time it was Harry who helped us do so). But I can't talk to Ron right now, I can't talk to anyone right now, my heart is being ripped to shreds and no one can understand how it feels, for they each have their separate memories of him. For me it's Harry grabbing onto the troll in the bathroom and sticking his wand up its nose, Harry greeting me like a long-lost sister after I came back from being Petrified, Harry helping to rescue Buckbeak and Sirius with my Time-Turner (I wish I could turn back time for him), Harry out-flying the Hungarian Horntail, Harry leading all of us into the Department of Mysteries, and so many more.

But I can't think of that now, all I can think of is that Harry's dead and never again will the three of us sit under the beech tree near the lake and study (or rather I study, Harry and Ron only do the semblance of it). Never again will Harry taunt Snape or sneak around the grounds with his Invisibility Cloak (although he's given that to Ron now and I know that he will find good uses for it). All I can think of are the 'never agains,' if that is the proper term for it and I try to hide my flood of emotions from all those present, their faces grim (well, except for the newspaper officials, their faces look gleeful, this will fill the headlines for weeks). I am glad to see that Rita Skeeter is not among them, but quickly stop myself from thinking that for that was when Harry was still alive, and, inadvertently, helped me figure out what that woman (if she deserves that title), really was.

My parents come up to me; Dumbledore gave them permission to come onto the school grounds so that we can go on a trip to the States after. Mum and Dad, they always think that any problem can be solved by first-class tickets and a fancy dinner.

"Are you alright, hon?" Dad asks.

All I can do is nod, that's all I can do without bursting into tears and flinging myself on my father like I did as a child.

"Do you want to leave now?" Mum asks. I can tell that she's uncomfortable among these people and is looking at Hogwarts as if it will become the rotting castle that Muggles see once again, though Dumbledore cast a Glamour Charm on it for them.

"No, I'll stay a bit longer," I whisper, going over to sit by myself. They know better than to follow me; if I need them, I'll call, they know that. I grab my bag that has been sewn over in several places from its rips from carrying so many books and dig out _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, the copy that Harry gave me. I have my own copy of course (two, actually), and they are in much better shape than Harry's, but I feel a need to read Harry's now, as if his absentminded scribbles in its pages will speak to me in a way that only Harry can. I flip through and see that is indeed true, Harry and Ron played Hangman in this book - I think that the phrase was 'Severus Snape is an ugly git.' Not exactly educational, I know, but since when has Harry cared about education? Any education that doesn't have to do with defeating Voldemort, that is, for he was always best at Defense Against the Dark Arts. Further along, Harry and Ron obviously had a conversation in the margins.

"When is this going to end?" That was Harry.

"Um . . . half-an-hour." Ron.

"Half-an-hour, I can't wait that long!"

"Yeah, it's starting to stink in here."

"That's Snape."

"Or Malfoy."

"True."

"Hey, I think Malfoy has a booger coming out of his nose."

"Hah, he does!"

"Should we tell him?"

"Nah, too funny."

The conversation had stopped then and there was a big ink blotch on the paper. My guess was that Snape had swept over and put an abrupt end to the conversation and Harry and Ron had had to stop suddenly. I imagine that I had been bent over my cauldron, stirring feverishly, desperate to get an O. I had missed out on that conversation and many others, I noticed, as I flipped through the pages. Harry and Ron had always had a funny take on everything - even things like Snape ("greasy-haired git") and Malfoy ("the bouncing ferret"). And here I was, Miss Know-It-All, Hermione Granger, the Muggle witch who mastered spells faster than anyone in the class and got twelve Outstandings on her OWL's. Wasn't that good enough? Of course it is, said a voice in my head. You're top of your class, that's much better than Harry and Ron.

That was true, but although Harry and Ron might not be top of the class, they knew how to laugh, how to take funny things out of anything. Harry had lived life and given everything he was worth, even in killing Voldemort. Kingsley and a bunch of other Aurors who had found him had reported that Voldemort was nothing but a bloody mess and it looked like Harry had managed to take some Death Eaters with him before he was killed by a Killing Curse right to the chest. He had died instantly, but they said that there was a look of triumph on his face; of course there was, he had achieved what he had set out to do.

I know that I would have never been able to achieve that, if I had had a future such as Harry's, I would have locked myself in my room (actually probably the library) and read until the end of time. But what type of life would that be? It wouldn't be a life, I answer myself and that's what I had been doing to myself, while Harry lived his heart out. Why, those memories I had of him, they were all of Harry living, putting his heart and soul and mind into everything he did. And I knew what I had to do. I had to live for Harry, do all the things he hadn't done, not just me, though, I knew Ron would. Ron had always been better at that type of stuff than me.

Closing the book with a snap, I walk over to Ron and sit down next to him, taking his hand in mine. He looks up at me and I smile at him, then, he reaches forward and kisses me - very lightly, of course, his lips just brush mine, but it is a kiss nonetheless. I draw back, surprised, yet happy-surprised and Ron smiles at me as well and as we hold each other's hands, I gaze up at the sky and think, 'I'm living for you, Harry.'

Note: Yes, I like this chapter much better. The next chapter is in Ginny's POV and, for those who haven't read _The Death of the Savior_, Harry confessed his love for her (aww!), so that chappie's going to be kind of romance/angsty with some salt and pepper. J

REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!!! OK, I am officially pathetic.


	3. Losing Their SaviorLosing My Love

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, uh . . . running out of witty ideas here.

**Chapter 3: Losing Their Savior . . . Losing My Love**

"Ginny?"

Someone is speaking to me, I'm not sure who. It doesn't really matter now, anyway, now that _he's _gone.

An arm comes around my shoulders and I look up into the concerned face of Dean Thomas, my boyfriend. But his title doesn't really matter anymore, the next time I'll snog him doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that _he's _gone.

"Gin, you alright?" Never have I felt like smacking him more.

"No, I'm _not _alright," I say, angrily shrugging him off. "And you know it." Why is it that boys always insist on asking those type of questions when the answer is quite obvious? Well, except for _him_. . . .

"Look, I know that Harry was one of your best mates, he was my friend, too, remember? I understand that you're hurt." You don't understand you can never understand! When you say or hear or even think _his _name, do you feel as if your heart is being ripped to pieces and you're burning up from the sheer pain of it? I don't think so. I feel like screaming all this and more at him, but I don't.

Instead I say, "He loved me, Dean," and stalk off, my demeanor warning him not to come after me or he'll wish he hadn't. I glance around and see if anyone's watching me. No one is, they're all gazing at _his _casket, grieving for the boy they all loved, and the man I wish I could have grown to love. I let out a choked sob at these thoughts and then I run, tears running unabashedly down my face and mixing with the rain of the dreary day, my hair windswept and my tattered dress robes flowing behind me. I'm not exactly one of the most glamorous girls at Hogwarts right now, but I know that _he _wouldn't have cared, he thought I was beautiful no matter what. He said he loved me and that he'd be thinking of me if he died. _When _he died.

I wonder if he is thinking of me now, up there with his parents and Sirius. I wonder if he's wishing I was there with him in that sunlit meadow (or bedroom, whichever he preferred), and . . . well, Mum wouldn't find it proper that I think such thoughts at so young an age. I haven't even gone that far with Dean.

But . . . oh, how much I want to be with him, how much I want to crawl into the casket with him and be buried beneath the warm, dark earth. I cannot express how much I want to do that right now. I could die down there and then be with him forever and . . . oh, if Mum could hear my thoughts, she'd slap me silly!

And speak of the devil, here's Mum now! It's quite easy to recognize her messy, curly bright-red hair, somewhat streaked with gray, despite her attempts to color it with numerous spells. She comes up to me and strokes my long hair, sweeping it out of my face, as she did for _him _so often. I turn to Mum with an expression very like _his_, I imagine and she smiles at me, though it looks slightly forced and her eyes are somewhat watery. I can tell that she's being brave for us, but she cries when she knows we can't see (a lot of the times in Dad's arms), because she doesn't want to let her children's spirits down. She cares about her family more than anything in the world (and _he _was part of that family). I guess that's why I love her so much.

"You didn't have to speak to Dean like that," she reprimands gently. Did I say love? I meant detest.

"He doesn't understand. _He _wasn't anything to him."

Mum understands what I mean, she always does. I guess it's a girl thing. "Well, of course he can't understand, dear. You shouldn't expect him to. Harry didn't really invite him to the will-reading, did he?"

I don't say anything, I don't want to admit defeat, but Mum knows that I understand her.

"I think you should go apologize," she says and then turns to leave.

"Apologize for what? He _loved _me, Mum! It's the truth!" I call, my heart breaking. Can't _anyone _understand?

Mum turns back and she gazes at me pityingly. "I know he loved you, which is why he would want you to move on," she says and then walks away, back to Dad. I want to scream, "BUT I CAN'T!" to her retreating back, but I don't. I just let the tears stream down my face and watch as Dad holds Mum to him. I wanted to have that type of relationship with _him_, we could have had such a future together, once we both realized our love for each other.

Of course, my first love for Harry had been more of the fan-girl type of love, it hadn't been true love, as I now realize ours was. I remember first seeing him when he went through to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, and thinking that that was _the _Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior of the wizarding world. He hadn't seemed like much of a savior to my ten-year-old brain, though, he looked pretty raggedy in his loose-fitting Muggle clothing.

However, I had learned so much more about _him _in my first year at Hogwarts, I remembered feeling horrible when I first woke up on the floor of the Chamber. I had put the savior of the wizarding world, my secret crush (though it wasn't really secret from that musical Valentine that that horrid dwarf sang) in danger! He could have been killed! Yet he had simply shrugged it off and led me out of the Chamber as if we had simply been picnicking and it had started raining, so we decided to leave - with haste. Later, when he was telling the story in McGonagall's office, I learned that the basilisk fang had pierced his arm and I nearly screamed. I _had_ nearly killed him! This was all my fault! But he didn't seem to mind, in fact, he hadn't mentioned my relation with the diary at all, he was trying to shift the blame away from me - toward him if he had to. But Dumbledore had rescued him in the nick of time, not this time, though, especially not because of what Harry had said to Dumbledore in his will, I would never have believed it of him, but there it was in black and white - literally.

As the years passed at Hogwarts, I began to open up toward Harry and come out of my shell, I realized that he wasn't the savior of the wizarding world that the Ministry had painted him to be, he was Harry (I guess I'll have to get used to hearing his name, so I might as well start now), Harry who liked Quidditch and chocolate frogs and mischief-making, _especially _mischief-making if what Remus told us about the Marauders was true, which I have no doubt it is. Remus wouldn't lie, especially not in honoring Harry's final requests.

And over those years, I found myself going past the supposed 'savior' he was and seeing the Harry that he actually was, the Harry that I found myself falling in love with, much more than fan-girl love. Yet I hadn't told him, why hadn't I told him? I was screaming at myself now, yet I knew the answer: because I was afraid he wouldn't love me back, was afraid of that adolescent embarrassment that he'd had in the beginning. I should have taken the chance, because now he's gone and I don't have it anymore.

But I _do _have another chance, I realize. I walk back to the grieving people at the funeral and up the aisle to the casket to pay my last respects. Ron's there and, upon seeing me, murmurs something and leaves. I wonder what it was and decide to ask him later. Then, it's my turn and I go up to the casket, looking at Harry's emerald-green eyes, staring into space, seeing nothing. "I love you, sweetie," I say, and, leaning forward, I kiss him, bringing all the love that I wish I'd shown him all those years into it. "And I know we'll be together again, someday."

Now Dean comes up and wraps his arm cautiously around my shoulders and I allow myself to relax into his embrace. "Sorry," he says pleadingly, begging me to forgive him. I will . . . this time anyway.

"Harry would want me to move on," I say, saying _his _name for the first time since his will had been read. Dean nods and leads me away from the casket and as he does, I whisper, "And I'll see you again someday," to the sky where rays of sun are starting to peek out.

Note: I hope you liked this chapter, it's not my best work, but I'm pretty proud of it, anyway. Next chapter is the twins and, since I'm not about to do two separate chapters for _twins_, I'll just do it in Fred's POV and he'll kinda sorta infer things to you, the reader, about George. Sound OK? Well, I'm doing it anyway! Mwahaha! Erm, yes. . . .

C'mon press the pretty button, you know you want to. (Oh, I give up!)


	4. Twice As Bad

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, do you really think I'd be posting stuff here? No? Good choice. Hee, hee, but seriously, you guys are the best, the few of you that review - thanks dans michigan girl and Heart of Chaos!

**Chapter 4: Twice As Bad**

We've always thought alike, George and I, people always said that we could read each other's minds. Maybe it's one of the added benefits of being a twin, I'm not sure, I haven't really experienced it any other way. But now I know that everyone's thinking the same thing and you don't need to be a twin to know. They're all thinking that Harry's gone. He's gone and he's not coming back . . . ever.

George and I had been looking forward to showing him our shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes over the summer, funded on his Triwizard winnings that he had given us and he refused to take no for an answer. In fact, I believe he said that he'd hex us, if we didn't take it. Harry was always persuasive that way. Of course, once we opened the shop, George and I decided that we'd give him everything that he wanted (or needed in the case of Snape or the Toad Lady) free of charge! It would help pay him back for everything he had given us - money and a new Weasley brother.

For Harry had certainly wormed his way into our family, Mum had taken him in like a lost kitten and nurtured him, until he had begun to rely on us as family and all of us Weasley kids as brothers and a sister (well, Ginny, more than a sister, I suppose). And George and I - we had loved him like a brother, playing pranks on him and teasing him just as lightheartedly as we did with Ron. Why, I remember the time that we picked him up from that Privet Drive place - Mum still talks about us 'hijacking' the car as if we were terrorists - and driven him to the Burrow, his rescuers. Mum had been terrifying when we'd landed of course, but, as I've said before, accepted Harry right into the Weasley fold as if he'd been one of her own.

However, Mum's reaction isn't what we expected. We're so used to her screaming and yelling when anything doesn't go the way she had planned and I guess Harry's death doesn't exactly fit into her schedule of events. Therefore, we both expected her to start screaming and raging at You-Know-Who, Death Eaters, Dumbledore, and the Earth in general. But she didn't, that was Remus's job this time, I suppose. Now he's just walking around, looking lost, though, his eyes blank and expressionless.

George seems to read my mind (yet again), and says, "It's funny, Mum isn't yelling."

"Yeah," I agree and I nod toward Mum where she's talking to Ginny. It's still hard to believe that Harry loved her and if he'd married her, well . . . that would have made him a _real_ Weasley brother.

"Or crying."

I nod, it's true. If Mum doesn't yell, crying is always the second-in-command. "She always tries to be brave for us."

It's George's turn to nod. "Yeah. She'll cry when we're not around though."

"Yup." There is an awkward silence between us, which I can't ever remember happening before, punctuated only by the Toad Lady's scream as the teacup she is drinking from bites her nose - hard. Dad asked us to put out refreshments for the Ministry officials who were coming, as if it were some sort of party. It wasn't like she cared about Harry anyway, all they cared about was the publicity and all the other parties that they could attend about You-Know-Who's, oh, alright . . . Voldemort's downfall and act as if it were all the Ministry's job that he was vanquished.

Dad, is sitting near the toad and he turns to us, giving us a glance - not stern, in fact, he looks somewhat happy that we did it. George and I grin back at him, if half-heartedly (a funeral doesn't really seem like a place to grin, does it?). All we had been doing was honoring Harry's final request and giving Umbridge what she richly deserved (of course she deserved more than that, but we're trying to have a bit of fun, not go to Azkaban).

I guess that Umbridge's reaction helped break the ice, because George says, "He's not coming back, is he?"

"No," I answer simply. "No, he's not."

"It's hard to believe."

"I know." It _is _hard to believe that Harry won't be coming over the Burrow anymore and Mum giving him second (and third and fourth) helpings of everything there.

"But it was nice of him to give us some money before he left." George talks about it as if Harry just went on a trip and he kind of did, according to Dumbledore, anyway; for, in an effort to calm us after the will was read, he said that death was 'nothing but the next, great adventure.' That _really _got Remus started.

"Well, who else would he have given it to?" I ask.

"Well . . . Remus."

"He gave Remus the money in Sirius's vault." George nods, acknowledging this.

"Or Dumbledore."

I stare at him, thinking that that was the stupidest thing my twin has ever said. Harry _hates_ Dumbledore! We usually think alike, but this . . . this is the most different thing ever!

George seems to read my mind again, for he changes the topic, saying, "Do you think that Mum and Dad will give us some money? You know, for the shop?"

"Yeah. Harry would want that."

"Yeah." George nods and then says, "I'm going to go say. . . ." He trails off and wipes something from his eye? George is crying?!

"Goodbye?" I finish gently, wiping something wet from my own eye. Not me, too!

George nods again, we've been doing that a lot lately, and he walks up the aisle to the casket. I look after him, thinking of what he said, _"Or Dumbledore."_ Harry hates Dumbledore; it is quite obvious in what Harry said to the old wizard. Why, he even said that he would perform the Killing Curse and the Cruciatus Curse - two of the three Unforgivables right there, on the headmaster! There is no doubt that Harry hates him.

_Or Dumbledore. _Yeah, right, Harry wouldn't give Dumbledore anything, after what the old wizard said to him. I can't really blame him for being angry, but this . . . he's hurt everyone, including Dumbledore.

_Or Dumbledore._ Harry told Dumbledore to keep away from his funeral, and the old man has honored Harry's request - as we all have honored his requests.

_Or Dumbledore. _A bee buzzes by my ear and I swat at it. That's what I hate about the summer, all these infernal bugs.

_Or Dumbledore._ A breeze tickles my ear ever so gently and whispers something. What is it? That bee is buzzing so loud, I can't hear. I swat at it again.

_Or Dumbledore._ The breeze whispers again and I hear what it says this time, the bee has stopped buzzing. It says, _"I don't," _ever so quietly.

_Or Dumbledore. _"Don't _what_?" I feel like asking. The breeze doesn't answer, or at least doesn't seem too, instead it says cryptically, _"I'm sorry," _and goes off.

_Or Dumbledore, _I think again. But Harry doesn't hate him? What does it mean? I don't understand, yet I don't think I need to. That's up to Harry. And Harry has forgiven Dumbledore, but now needs to work on forgiving himself.

George comes back up, wiping a bunch of wet things from his cheeks. He's crying again. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," I say back. And, although we're twins, George doesn't read my mind this time, nor can he. No one can understand that I've had an encounter.

Note: Ooh, supernatural . . . stuff. Be in awe of my writing skills . . . now! J Anyway, the "voice" (think you can guess who it is?), will play a role as the story goes on, especially in the last chapter if the plot (yes, there _is _a plot!) goes the way I want it to. For those of you that don't know who the "insect" is (I didn't specify what _type _of insect - mwahaha, I am evil!), then think about what a certain wizard's name means. Next chapter - Neville, and, although it will still be angsty, there's a kinda funny part at the end that made me laugh while I was writing it. I do that a lot - like when I'm writing papers for school and I'm trying to act all serious and intelligent-sounding in them, I burst out laughing. Yeah, and you don't care. . . .

**Please review, people!!!**


	5. What He Saw

Disclaimer: sigh No, I still don't own Harry Potter. 

**Chapter 5: What He Saw **

"Neville, pass me another rose, would you?" Professor Sprout asks me. I don't react at first, continuing to pat the dirt absentmindedly where I've planted a new rose, although the dirt is already thoroughly flattened. I can't believe that he's finally gone.

"Neville!" Professor Sprout says, bringing me out of my trance.

"Oh? What?" I ask, wiping some sweat off of my brow.

"Can you pass a new rose?" she asks, gesturing at the flowers ready to be put into the moist earth near the Quidditch Pitch, right near the bleachers.

"Oh, sure," I say, still half in a daze as I hand her a tray of roses to be planted in the moist earth near the monument. The monument that was built for Harry, depicting him as the type of wizard shown in the now-destroyed Fountain of Magical Brethren, the one with the cheesy smile and raised wand which would probably have a ton of girls fawning around him if he were real. Of course, they're all fawning around his casket now, wiping pretend tears from their eyes and giving huge, fake smiles (interspersed with sad hiccups), to the photographers and reporters for the _Daily Prophet_.

It was all paid for by the Ministry of course, wanting to make Harry their posthumous poster-boy, showing how great the Ministry was for allowing the prestigious school of Hogwarts to continue running to train great young wizards such as this (who died much too young as the eulogizer explained it, as if he knew Harry) or some other type of bullshit.

I knew that if we - Harry's friends - had been allowed to make the monument (or at least decide the design of it - Dean might make the monument), it would be a Harry with his wand in his back pocket ("you could lose your buttocks that way!" Moody would say). A broomstick would be in his right hand and he might be doing a rude hand gesture at Snape or Malfoy (who would be out of the scene), with the other. He might even be tripping over his robes, who knows? But it would be a real Harry, not a phony one.

However, I've forgotten something, it wouldn't be only Harry on the monument, he would have his friends surrounding him; and not only that, but not under him as the witch, centaur, goblin, and house-elf were in the Fountain of Magical Brethren, but at an equal level. There would be Ron, giving a cocky smile and waving, perhaps with Keeper's gloves on and holding his broomstick (he's ecstatic about the Firebolt that Harry gave him), under one arm. Hermione, with a somewhat worried expression about her grades (before Dumbledore read the will, she thought that we had all been called, because of our OWL grades) and holding a thick tome of some sort under one arm while her bushy brown air seemed to fly around her in disarray, though it would be carved in marble. Then, there might be Ginny, being her spunky self - lifting her head high like a horse and her bright red hair streaming around her, as if caught in a high wind. She was running just a little while ago, I saw her run past, she looked to be crying, now she looks a bit calmer now, her mum's talking to her.

But I'm being narrow-minded, not thinking of Harry's other friends, there would be Remus, probably, the worry lines around his face less creased than they are now, so happy to get to be with Harry. I know that he would welcome that now, even if he were to spend evermore as a statue. There would be Seamus, Dean, and I, simply grinning; Seamus and Dean with their arms around Parvati and Lavender, Parvati who would have her twin, Padma, next to her. Those two are nearly as close as Fred and George, though their being in different Houses hinders it. And then Hagrid, grabbing the collar of some creature with Fang at his heels or maybe trying to leap on one of the many people in the area. And some of the teachers, of course, McGonagall gazing over her square spectacles less sternly than usual, Flitwick, his face wreathed in smiles, and perhaps even Professor Sprout. Probably not Snape, though, although it does amaze me that Harry . . . liked him somewhat.

Yet Harry always tried to see the best in everyone, he would give everyone a chance before judging them - I guess that that's one of the things that Dumbledore taught him - though he seemed to be trying to renounce all those teachings in his will. Nevertheless, he's done it, seen Ron more than the youngest son of the entire Weasley clan, seen Hermione more than a know-it-all (though I saw Ron and her kissing a while ago, guess they _were _meant for each other. I always thought that Harry and Hermione would end up together). He saw Ginny for more than the rabid fan-girl and actually _loved _her (that really ended my hopes for the Harry/Hermione romance), and saw me as. . . .

This is the part that surprises me even now, Harry thinks I have potential to be something besides a shy boy that's horrible at Potions. He said that I was _not _nothing! He _believes _in me. _Me!_ I can remember what he wrote as vividly as if the words are right in front of me:

_You excel in Herbology . . . You have real skill to be a talented Auror, Neville, just like your dad, you were really brave in the Department of Mysteries . . . and you can grow up to be really talented, no matter what anyone says about you. . . ._

He really _did _believe in me, the clumsy Neville Longbottom, he thought I could be someone, even someone as great as my father! In fact, Gran says that there's hope for me, after all, especially after she heard of my role in the Department of Mysteries, she even bought me a new wand. Even my OWL scores weren't that bad (well, except for Potions which I got a D in, but who needs that anyway, according to Harry?). Gran was really proud of my O in Herbology and Es in Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. She says that my mum was good in Herbology and my dad was good in DADA.

I guess there's hope for me yet to turn out like my parents and I'll be willing to fight for the Order in the remainder of this war (because with Voldemort gone the Dark side can't hold out much longer), and give my life for the Order, because that's what Dad would have done (and nearly did - insanity is worse than death, I think) and what Harry did. And Harry believes in me, believes in all of his friends, believes that they can do anything as long as they put their mind to it, and encourages them with every particle of his heart, soul, and mind. I guess he put about half of those particles into encouraging me - I naturally have a low self-esteem from everything I've heard from Snape and Gran. And I know what I have to do, it's like I've been preparing for this since the second I was born, and now it's finally here.

"Neville. We're done here," Professor Sprout informs me.

I look up, and realize that I've been staring and awkwardly patting the same piece of dirt for quite a while; not only that, but my cheeks are wet, I've been crying. I sigh and get up, no one said that this was going to be easy.

However, mustering my nerves I walk over to him - the greasy-haired, sallow-skinned, hook-nosed g- . . . what if he hears me? I know he's taught Harry Occlumency and is able to use Legilimency - or read minds - on others. I sigh and continue on, mentally berating myself for being such a wimp, and, finally, my two protesting feet come to place me next to Professor Severus Snape.

"Yes, Longbottom?" he asks, without even looking up.

Now that the moment's finally here, I feel myself becoming nauseous. "Um . . . I, um. . . ." I trail off and Snape turns to me, raising an eyebrow. "I . . . just want you to know that I'm not continuing with Potions next year because I didn't achieve the right OWL."

Snape snorts. "I knew _that_, Longbottom. What did you get, a T?"

I blush scarlet. "No, a . . . a D."

"Well, that's an improvement."

I gape, is that some form of a _compliment _from Snape? I must be dreaming! I pinch myself - hard - but I'm still here.

"A very small improvement, but an improvement," Snape amends. Ah, there we go. "What else did you want to tell me?"

"What?"

Snape rolls his eyes. "Unfortunately, you haven't left yet so you must want to tell me something. What . . . is . . . it?"

"Oh." I blush again. "I . . . I'd just like to tell you that even though _one _Gryffindor may . . . like you somewhat, that doesn't mean I do. I still think you're a very biased, greasy-haired, sallow-skinned, hook-nosed git." I end my tirade of sorts with a great breath, my ears flushing red in my embarrassment.

To my utter surprise, Snape's mouth actually twitches at the corners, and he actually seems to . . . lo and behold! Did Snape _smile_? "That's good to hear, Longbottom," he says, still doing that . . . _thing_ with his mouth curving upwards a bit, so it kind of, sort of looks like he's smiling.

"Why?" I ask, dumbfounded. I would have thought that I'd be in detention till I graduated after I said that to him. That is, if Snape hadn't killed me first.

"Think, Longbottom," Snape says. "If all Gryffindors . . . liked me somewhat, then that would ruin my reputation as the biased, greasy-haired, sallow-skinned, hook-nosed git to them, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"I'm glad that Potter taught you something," Snape finally says.

"What did he teach me, sir?"

"Do you think you would have really done that before, Longbottom?"

"No."

"Well, then, think. I know that that's difficult for you, but do it, please." He then turns away and I see the faintest hint of bloodshot eyes as if he's been crying. I gape at him and then turn to leave. I never thought I'd say this but . . . Snape's right! Harry taught me to believe in myself, and, I may have only done a small thing, but it was important to Harry and I, and I knew that to Harry, it made all the difference in the world.

Note: So, how did you like the ending? Love it? Hate it? I tried to make Snape in character, but give me your input, so that I can make sure he's more in character in his own chapter (Chapter 11), even though I'm not going to change the basic premise of what the chapter is about. Do you want to know? Too bad, I'm not telling! Mwahaha! Wow, I've been saying (er…typing) that a lot lately. Whatever. Next chapter - Luna's POV. I must tell you that Luna is one of my favorite characters in the entire series (hey, I took my penname from her, that must mean _something_!).

Come on people, review (besides dans michigan girl and HeartofChaos - you guys are awesome!). I know that my story is getting some hits, so why aren't people reviewing???


	6. Reality

Disclaimer: looks around Nope, still don't own it. sigh

Note: Yes, I know I've been updating daily since this chapter, which has been around a week in waiting. Due to the help of a reviewer, I'm deciding to extend the updates a little to: a.) extend the story a little more and give me time to write more chapters (I've written up to Chapter 10 thus far) and, b.) to give you people more time to realize that this story _actually exists_ and review!!!

**Chapter 6: Reality**

I was somewhat annoyed when Dad and I were called back from our safari, hunting for Crumple-Horned Snorcacks (we were quite close to finding one, actually), to attend a simple, tame will-reading that Dumbledore didn't even need to hunt for. Harry left it right on his desk, no clues to find it, or a prize, or anything! What's the fun in that? However, I must confess, this is quite a nice party with all of these important Ministry officials and Headmaster Dumbledore and other students here. It's quite wonderful, though I wonder why Harry hasn't shown up for it, because I know he can't be dead.

It's actually quite obvious that he isn't when you think about it, and I guess that's why I'm a Ravenclaw, we're famed for our brains and all of Harry's other friends are Gryffindors, though Neville does show some promise. No wonder they think he's really gone, Hermione especially, she never was much one for common sense, doesn't even believe in Snorcacks! It's quite obvious that he did a spell of some sort right before he killed You-Know-Who, perhaps a Switching Spell, so perhaps he's in Ronald's body now or maybe Dumbledore's. No, probably not Dumbledore's now that I think about it, he seemed a tad bit angry with the old man. Something about a prophecy about killing You-Know-Who and him living with his Muggle relatives for ten years. But I can't understand why he's mad at _Dumbledore _about all this, the man was trying to do what he thought best, he seems like a nice old wizard, nearly as smart as me. I wonder if he believes in Snorcacks. Maybe I'll ask him some time, but now he's up in the school, he was honoring Harry's final request and staying away from his funeral. Why, when I finally die, I'll invite anyone who wants to come and see me, it won't matter who they are as long as they don't hurt my dead body in any way. That gamekeeper, Hagrid, looks like he might be able to do something like that, but Ronald likes him and he breeds those beautiful thestrals, so I guess I can forgive him.

Then again, Harry might not have used a spell at all; he never really seemed talented at Transfiguration, though what he taught us in the DA was pretty good - Defense Against the Dark Arts and all that. I wonder what he has set up for next year, that is, if he ever reveals that he's actually alive. No, it might have been a Humdinger's doing, they were always talented shape-shifters. Perhaps one kind Humdinger decided to change into Harry and help get rid of that horrid prophecy hanging over him, though, as I've heard Humdingers are quite temperamental and usually don't help humans. Perhaps it was a dare from one of its friends; I've read in _The Quibbler_ that they're always doing strange things like that. Yes, that's what must have happened. I smile to myself, pleased at my deduction; I'll tell the others later, that'll really make their day.

"Hey, Luna," says a voice to the side of me and I look to see Neville coming up to me, wiping his dirt-encrusted hands on his robes.

"What were you doing?" I ask, nodding my head to acknowledge him and gesturing at his dirty hands and sweaty brow.

"Oh, planting flowers over by the monument with Professor Sprout," he answers. "You know, the one the Ministry made for him." He rolls his eyes and I can't say I can blame him. It is quite cheesy-looking.

I nod. "Yes, I know."

"Yeah." He sits down next to me, inadvertently straightening his dirty robes. Why is he so nervous around me? I wonder.

"Why did they make a monument for him?" I finally ask, gazing at Neville raptly. Dad always said that that was what he liked about me; he said that it reminded him of Mum, she would always do that. Dad says that that's where I get my eyes . . . and my looks. Then why hasn't a guy ever spared me a glance? Not even Ronald.

However, Neville fidgets and drops his gaze, so that he doesn't have to look into my blue eyes. Finally, he says, "Well, to show respect for his death."

I laugh softly and Neville gapes at me. "But he isn't dead!" I clarify.

"Luna, he's . . . he's right in the casket," he replies shakily.

"That's a Humdinger."

"A . . . what? Luna, what are you going on about?"

I sigh. Sometimes Gryffindors can be _such _thickheads! "A Humdinger," I repeat. "It's a shape-shifter; it's quite obvious that it became Harry."

"But Luna, it was _Harry's _job to defeat You-Know-Who not the Humdinger's," says Neville patiently, acting, in my opinion, as if he's a psychiatrist talking to a lunatic who might leap upon him at any moment.

"Yes, the Humdinger took that off of his back. Quite nice of him, actually, they're not always that kind to humans. I guess it's because he's the Boy-Who-Lived. . . . ." Yes, that must be it. The Humdingers must have had a meeting of some sort and decided to help Harry. If only I had been invited; I should have told them to not go quite so far, so all of Harry's other friends didn't think he was dead.

"But what about the will? He wrote out his will, Luna."

There must not be much hope for poor Neville, after all. "He changed into Harry and wrote it out," I explain. So Harry isn't really angry with Dumbledore at all, I realize. I thought not, he really is a kind old man.

It is Neville's turn to sigh. "Luna, Humdingers _aren't real_. Harry's body is right in the casket, it's not a shape-shifter, he's _gone_, Luna, _gone_. Don't you understand?" His voice is pleading and I take pity on him.

"Yes, I understand," I lie. Poor, confused Neville. He must not know any better.

Neville smiles, relieved. It's funny, I've never really noticed how his eyes crinkle when he smiles or the dimples on his cheeks or the way his black hair falls over his sweaty, chubby face right now despite his attempts to push it back. "Good, great," he says nervously, then begins playing with a stray thread on his robes. He's nervous again for some reason. "Do you . . . do you want to come and pay your . . . your respects?"

"My respects?" I ask. What on Earth does 'paying your respects,' mean? I didn't know you had to _pay _to get in here! How much is it? Hopefully, it isn't too much, the _Quibbler _hasn't been doing too well lately.

"You know . . . to say goodbye?" he clarifies, his voice slightly croaky.

"Oh, of course!" I say, leaping up and startling him so that he nearly falls out of his chair, then going up to the casket, leading Neville close behind me. It is quite pretty, too. Did the Ministry pay for it, just like they paid for the monument to be built? They probably did, they're always trying to get attention like that.

Neville and I are at the casket now and I gaze down at Harry's face, his bright green eyes that were so lively during DA meetings and his raven-black hair that was always in his face while he was flying. He seems so different now, so . . . at peace.

And I guess he is, because he's accomplished what he set out to do. I wonder what the Humdinger's name is that gave his life for Harry and a tear rolls down my cheek for that wonderful creature. Neville sees it and grips my hand tightly in his, the other reaching cautiously around my shoulders. I let him, too upset to notice or care. And, while I stand there grieving for the nameless Humdinger, there is a fog that seems to obscure my sight for a moment, and, instead of the dead body of Harry before me in that pretty, bejeweled casket, there is the veil that I saw in the Department of Mysteries. There are happy voices coming from behind it, a woman's, two men's, and what sounds like a teenage boy - Harry. . . .

_Oh!_ I think. There is a soft breeze that tickles my ear and it seems to whisper, _Duh!_ before leaving again.

Of course, how could I have been so stupid? I berate myself. It wasn't the Humdinger at all, it was _him_! All he did was go behind the veil, the easiest way of all! I should have known! And those voices . . . they must have been his parents and Stubby Boardman, I think he was Harry's godfather. Oh, yes, now I remember, Harry was plunging toward the veil a few weeks ago in the Department of Mysteries because Stubby (I think he called him Sirius), fell through the veil and that Remus man stopped him. Remus probably wishes that it was a Humdinger, I decide, he was very distraught when Dumbledore read the will, but Harry doesn't. Harry's happy now, he's with his parents and he's alive there, the easiest, simplest way of all. I hope that he's seen Mum, he told me that he'd say 'hi,' to her from me. Harry must be so happy, he must think that he's so clever when that's the easiest way of all and a smile spreads across my face as I gaze down at Harry's inert form. Yes, the easiest way, yet it was pretty hard to get there.

Note: Have any of you read _Stargirl_, by Jerry Spinelli? I adore that book and, when I was reading this over, I think I made Luna sound a lot like her. If you've read it, give me your opinion on it. Sorry, I couldn't help it with the Luna/Neville thing, you've got to admit, they look _so _cute together! Next chapter - Hagrid, and I do consider that chapter to be one of my greatest accomplishments. I'm _very _proud of that chapter.


	7. Choices

Disclaimer: I wish I will, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. _Please?_ . . . Nope, still don't own it.

Note: This update signifies a very important event in my life that you, the reader, are here to witness. This is my first update after my graduation! Woohoo! Come on, give me reviews for my graduation present! _Please?_

Note: I tried to stay true to Hagrid's "accent" as it is shown in the books. Tell me what you think!

**Chapter 7: Choices**

I let out a gigantic sob as I sit at me kitchen table, tears streaming down my face, and me bucket-sized tankard in front o' me. It was full o' brandy a few minutes ago. I need some more to make me numb ter what's happenin' around me, but right now I don' feel like it. I doubt that I'll feel like doin' anythin' anymore. Fang lets out a mournful howl, scratching at me leg. He's hungry, I know. Hardly conscious of what I'm doin', I place a plate of my homemade rock cakes in front of him. His tail begins ter wag as he devours them - with a bit o' difficulty, mind you - giving a bark of thanks.

I sigh. I remember when I invited that mischievous trio over many, many times, how they used to eat these, even Harry. _Harry._ I let out another choked sob.

_Knock, knock._

Now who could tha' be? Then, I remember, it's not visitors, it's _me_.

_BOOM! BOOM!_ It's my knocks (or rather, blows), against tha' rickety front door in the middle o' the sea on that fateful summer's night - July 31st to be exact. It's my knocks that blow the front door off o' it's hinges and I come inside to tell Harry tha' he's a wizard and ter take 'im away from those ruddy Muggles tha' abused, that _dared _to abuse Harry James Potter, the savior of the wizarding world. Those ruddy Muggles that didn' even tell 'im that 'e was a wizard! Why, I shoulda' torn them limb from limb, but I showed 'em nonetheless, giving that fat lump of a son o' theirs a pig's tail!

Usually, that memory would've evoked at least a small smile from me, but now I find meself focusin' on the former - that I should've torn those ruddy Muggles limb from limb. But then again, the _Daily Prophet _would have a field day about that, how the half-giant oaf killed Muggles, Rita especially. . . .

_Knock, knock._

Oh, yeah, it's just visitors - ah, well, they'll go away after a while, for now, I don' feel like doin' anything, including gettin' up and invitin' guests into me house. For now, I just want ter sit here and mull over me thoughts. . . .

Or perhaps I could've just taken 'im away from those Muggles, not just ter buy school supplies, but away fer good, given 'im to another wizarding family. The Weasleys or Lupin, maybe even Professor Dumbledore. No, even better . . . I could've taken 'im away tha' day I found 'im in the ruins of Godric's Hollow an' given 'im ter Sirius Black.

But I didn't and perhaps tha' was the wrong choice.

For with a wizarding guardian, Harry would've been given love an' kindness, the two things tha' he so desperately wanted . . . _needed_, but was given hardly any over his fifteen years livin' with those blasted Muggles. And, most importantly, he would have been given protection; protection that would've kept him from battling You-Know-Who four times since 'e was a baby, fighting a basilisk, dementors, a Hungarian Horntail, an' Merlin knows what else in all of his encounters - to say the least - throughout his five years at Hogwarts. Maybe with protection, he would've realized tha' he doesn't have ter do everything on 'is own. Maybe then he woulda realized tha' he didn' need to go the road to defeating . . . Voldemort alone, that we would've helped 'im if he'd just _asked_! I let out another gigantic sob.

_Knock, knock._

"Hagrid?"

"Go away!" The knocking ceases. Good, I want ter be alone right now, anyway, without any annoying visitors. This is worse than when Buckbeak was to be executed, for now I know there's no Time-Turner tha' can make Harry alive again. Real smart of Harry and Hermione ter do that and save Sirius along with it. _Harry._ I wipe me nose with a huge spotted handkerchief, groaning.

He's gone, get used to it, I berate myself. Never again will Harry save the day, never again will he catch another Snitch, never again will he have to defeat a Dark Lord. For Harry completed his mission, a mission tha' I wished I knew of sooner so that I coulda helped him, so tha' we _all _could've helped 'im.

Yet, in a way, haven't we helped 'im? We didn' give him the protection and mollycoddling (though Molly tried to make up fer all of this loss with her love fer him like a son), ter keep him away from all of those incidents he was subjected to, throughout his five years. We gave him a choice of what ter do or not, didn't hold 'im back and say "no, it's too dangerous," Professor Dumbledore, especially. Great man, Dumbledore.

For it was him who allowed Harry ter go with Ron an' Hermione to get the Sorcerer's Stone and the trio learned that together they could accomplish anythin', _anything_ if they set their minds to it - and those minds were stretched quite a bit over the past five years, not just from exams. It was him who helped Harry find out about that whole Chamber of Secrets business (though I must say that I helped a bit by telling 'em to "follow the spiders"). Otherwise, I still might have been in Azkaban, I shudder ter think of that. It was 'im that didn' give Harry protection and allowed him ter figure out about Sirius an' learn a Patronus Charm against those ruddy dementors (though most of the credit goes to Lupin fer that), and finding out that not all o' his family had been destroyed on Halloween because of that ruddy traitor, Peter.

And, most important of all, Harry made a choice ter do all of these things. He coulda' refused to go after the Sorcerer's Stone and let that Quirrell-Voldemort . . . person (if he deserves tha' title), get it. He could've let that basilisk go on Petrifying people and refused to go into the Chamber ter rescue Ginny (though I can understand why 'e did it, now). He coulda' refused to believe in Sirius's innocence and let the dementors take 'im, refusing to fight against 'em fer justice in this crazy society we wizards live in right now.

Then, in his past two years - the most dangerous of all of 'em if yeh ask me - when he was in the graveyard with . . . Voldemort, he coulda' given himself up fer lost and refused to fight back - like his father would've. When the Ministry was runnin' Hogwarts, he coulda' sunk back with the masses and told everyone tha' Voldemort never came back and that Dumbledore was an old fool, to protect his own name. Instead, he chose to rebel with a group of other students and made that brilliant DA club.

Even when Professor Dumbledore told 'im the prophecy, he coulda just gone back to those Muggles and sat in 'is room day in and day out, saying "poor me, poor me," an' refused to do anythin' while the carnage of innocents continued. But he didn'. He coulda' joined his parents and Sirius forevermore, without doing anythin' and allow . . . Voldemort to reign and gain more an' more power. But he didn't. He made the right choice and met what was coming toward 'im with open arms. I'm not really an expert on such things, but I s'pose that's what makes 'im the hero of the wizarding world.

_Knock, knock._

"Hagrid, we know you're in there! Please let us in Hagrid!"

An' if Harry can make the right choice ter defeat the Darkest wizard that our world has ever seen, then I certainly can stop mopin' and get up ter invite me guests in. Wiping me face on my handkerchief once again and hopin' that I don' look too miserable, I draw my chair back and stand up. Fang, who has finished his rock cakes, begins to wag his tail and runs ter the door, leapin' up on it, scratching and barkin', hoping to jump on the guests and hopin' even more tha' they have some treats.

"Out o' the way, Fang," I mutter, drawing him back gently by the collar. He barks playfully as I open the door ter see Ron an' Hermione standin' there. The two o' them are holding hands and both are slightly flushed. Took 'em long enough, I think with an inward chuckle. Harry would really like that.

And without waiting for a greeting or an answer ter the red marks on Ron's cheeks, I say, "Hello, you two. Yeh want some tea?"

Note: Next chapter, drum roll, please - Remus!!! happy dance Go Remus, go Remus!


	8. Nothing Left

Disclaimer: looks around Nope, still don't own it. sigh Not even Remus.

Note: Finally - the Remus chapter! Yay Remus! Just in case you guys haven't figured it out from certain disclaimers (see above) or my profile (see profile - duh!), then I am in love with this werewolf. How can you not love a guy who you can scream at and he just keeps his cool? Anyway . . . I love Remus and, because of that, I love Remus angst, so this is a very, _very _angsty chapter.

**Chapter 8: Nothing Left**

James was the Quidditch star; Sirius was the rogue, the black sheep of his family; Peter was the awkward nerd. And I, Remus Lupin, was the organized one, everyone's always said that about me. At Hogwarts, it was the color-coded study schedule and homework planner which James and Sirius teased me mercilessly about. While a teacher at Hogwarts, it was the meticulously organized grade and plan-books, and while a member of the Order - maintaining careful notes about where Death Eaters or Voldemort could be. Even in the direst situations, I can keep my head and come up with a plan. Many people admire me for it; they shouldn't, but they do nonetheless.

For what many people _don't _know is that organization is simply a cover-up, so that I can focus on something else aside from what's happening right in front of me. Usually it works well, but now it isn't. I can't ignore these events that have seemed like something out of a nightmare for me, but a fairytale for others, the Ministry of Magic included. Imagine all the publicity they get from this.

Believe me, I've tried. I actually set quill to parchment in an attempt to write out what my mind cannot seem to comprehend. Perhaps to find some sense in all of this nonsense, nonsense that I don't want to believe in. Let me tell you that it was the most pathetic attempt by a human being.

_July 28, 1996: Harry's will is read. My screams, my anguished howls and sobs, intermingled with swears that would have made Prongs and Padfoot proud. The children's astonished faces, their eyes wide as mild-mannered Professor Lupin explodes. Molly and Albus's voices trying to calm me down, to get me to see reason. More of my screams, swears that I can't remember where I've heard them. Oh, yes, and a nasty crack, I broke Dumbledore's nose - again._

_July 29, 1996: Harry's body is found. Still more of my screams, howls, sobs, and profanities. The assembled adults and children watching me with tears streaming down their faces now, some of them sobbing slightly, but those are nothing compared to mine. Madam Pomfrey, the only adult taking charge in the room, trying to draw me away to clean him up before the burial while I sob. The nurse's voice goes from kind to somewhat stern and amongst everyone's cries, the worst thing of all happens - realization._

But I've burned it by now, trying to ignore what's happened; half-thinking that maybe, just maybe, by burning it, it will get rid of everything that's happened these past few days. I walk across the grounds now, the same motive prominent in my mind, the other of keeping Molly's penetrating and worried gaze off of me. She acts as if I'm about to scream, "Goodbye, cruel world!" and drown myself or fling myself into the mouth of the giant squid . . . or something. I must admit, I have contemplated the idea several times, though never in so dramatic a fashion. However, there is a nice, long drop from off the Astronomy Tower.

For Harry is the only one that I would have lived for, the only person that would have made me been able to go on. Even after Sirius died, even when all my best friends in the world were gone in some way or another; I stuck around for him and would have continued to stick around for him, would have been there for him, been the father-figure in his life. That is why I grabbed him, held him back from the veil; I couldn't let him throw his life away. . . .

That's not the whole truth and I know it. For I _need _him to continue on, I need a motive to continue, and Harry would have been that motive. It's incredibly selfish and self-centered and everything else of me and I know it, but I can't help it. I needed Harry to continue on and now . . . he's gone.

Of course, I know that I've never really been a father-figure in Harry's life. For him, all I was, was a former DADA teacher - mind you, the best one he ever had - but still nothing but a teacher and that was the only relationship Harry ever considered with me. Now Sirius, _he _was the one Harry confided in, _he _was the one that Harry would tease and joke with, _he _was the father-figure. And I, _I _was Professor Lupin, one of James and Sirius's best friends back during our schooldays at Hogwarts And now I took up an occupation as a member of the Order and Sirius's sidekick, the one that Harry heard and saw, but I was just there, I wasn't anything to him. Not that I'm jealous of Sirius, not at all . . . I'd just like to be a little more than a former teacher-friend of sorts in Harry's eyes.

For, even though Harry may not care about me farther than he cares about any teacher, I care deeply about him. I've loved him ever since that day in the hospital when I held his tiny form in my arms. And my love for him only increased during that heavenly year and a half that he spent with James and Lily, when all of us were a family. Ah, it was good times, then and I remember them well: Harry murmuring incoherent baby words to his stuffed bear; Harry's face lighting up when he sees me and crying "Uncle Mooie!" as he lifted up his arms to be held; Harry's first birthday (that's when James and Sirius first adopted the term "Jr. Marauder," when referring to Harry); Harry falling asleep in mine or someone else's lap many, many times. . . .

Why can't those times come back? I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek and I bury my face in my hands and moan. I close my eyes tight shut, hoping that maybe, just maybe this is some insane dream and I'm going to wake up to uproarious laughter from James and Sirius when one of them tells a joke or a story (mostly to do with pranks on Snape) while Peter - if he's there - laughs nervously and Lily gives me a look that says, "Will they _ever _grow up?" which I return. Meanwhile, Harry sits on someone's lap, his bright, emerald-green eyes watching everyone raptly as if he's writing a book about all this.

But no, instead I see a vision that has been plaguing me in the little sleep I've been getting - rather, I'm being _drugged _to get it - these past few days. I am standing on the Quidditch Pitch, alone except for three corpses - those of James, Lily, and Sirius - their eyes staring blankly upwards. And, as always, I look up, hoping that something, some God will be there to reassure me that everything will be alright. However, as I do so, I feel rain streaming down my face, mixing with the salty tears there already. Lightning lights up the sky while thunder goes on amidst the noise of pattering rain on the school roof.

The school doors are flung open now and a figure in a black cloak walks out, carrying a Firebolt under their arm. I want to hope that just this one time it will be someone else, but know that it still is and always will be - Harry. Seemingly oblivious to his parents and godfather's dead bodies, he climbs onto his broom and takes off, despite my many warnings. I shout after him to come back, but he doesn't listen to me. Goddamn Potter stubbornness! Just as I think this, a bolt of lightning comes out of the sky and hits Harry squarely in the chest. I scream as his limp body spirals downwards through the layers of clouds, but, as I run to try and catch him, to save him, perhaps, I begin to fade, becoming slightly transparent and slowly disappearing as my scream fades to a whisper and the image of Harry falling is branded into my vision as I fade from the picture.

And I know exactly what it means, for they're all gone - James, Lily, Sirius, and Harry, and they're all up there, gazing down at poor, old Moony, the werewolf-y nothing. Once I was a Marauder, then a teacher, then a member of the Order and now . . . now I am a nothing. For no one in the Order now really, truly cares about Moony, who was once a something and is now a nothing, the only one left; the one who seemed to be forgotten when our futures were planned; the guy with all the organized plans which didn't do him any good in the end - this being the end. That Moony. The nothing Moony. . . .

I am brought out of this self-induced reverie by yet another scream - though not my own. I swing my head back to see what has happened. Could it be. . . .? No, stop being an idiot, Moony, I mentally scold myself. It's only Dolores Umbridge, screaming as a teacup she was using leaped for her nose. Quite a nice model, I must say so myself - the cup, not Umbridge. It's most likely a Weasleys Wizard Wheezes product that those nefarious twins set up.

_Most likely?_ No, most _definitely_.

Well, at least they put it to good use, in honoring Harry's final requests. I must say, that for me, it would have been a tie between using it on Umbridge or Snivellus. I feel hot tears prick the corners of my eyes at the thought - Snivellus - James and Sirius's nickname for Severus at school and even Sirius's nickname for him during the last year. And, oh, the stories I could have told Harry about all the pranks we played on old Snivelly at school, but, no . . . they're all dead and old Moony is a nothing.

I start walking again, trying to deflect Molly's gaze to someone else, hoping to show her that I'm perfectly fine. I pass by the Quidditch Pitch - it reminds me of my vision too much and I turn away only to see . . . Ron and Hermione. Although Hermione is still letting out soft sobs now and again and Ron's eyes are suspiciously transparent, the two are still looking quite content as they hold each other under the beech tree by the lake, kissing every so often. I let out a small, choked sob myself. I remember how James and Lily used to do that, how Sirius and I always hoped that Harry and Ginny would get together someday, and now that they've finally realized it, it's too late, much too late. . . .

My strides are longer now as I struggle to distance myself from all that is hurting me, to get away from it all - forever. Hoping that Molly isn't watching, I walk past Hagrid's hut (where my sensitive wolf's ears can hear sobs issuing from) and walk a few steps into the Forbidden Forest. _Forbidden? _Yeah, right. Why, the number of times that we got into there and, from what I've heard from Harry, he's living up to his father's reputation. . . .

Stop thinking of Harry! But it is too late to stop the tears from sliding down my face. I swipe at them angrily and sniff deeply, trying to compose myself. The last thing I need now is for people to be drawn to my sobs (Molly especially) and see me die with tears streaming down my face. I was never really the melodramatic one in school, that was Sirius. . . .

I let out a dry sob at the thought and quickly glance around, hoping that no one heard me. No, the area around me is clear, there is only a faint wind ruffling my hair (streaked with gray even more now). I hope that there isn't a storm coming up, it's looked pretty gross out for a couple of days now and I wouldn't want my body to get rained on even if I am a nothing.

I fumble for my wand and find it deep in the pocket of my robes and play with it for a few moments, turning it in my hands. Should I do it? I finger my wand casually as if thinking about doing a simple _Wingardium Leviosa_, rather than the dreaded Killing Curse.

I remember when I first got it, that was when I first met Lily, looking quite pleased with herself as she played with her wand. I remember being astounded at her marvelous green eyes - so like Harry's - being nearly transfixed by them as she paid for her purchase and left the store, smiling at me as she passed. She had a marvelous smile, too. . . .

I shake my head angrily, wanting to change into a werewolf and tear out all these bittersweet memories. But I know there is a much easier way than that. _Yes_, this _is _what I want, I think determinedly, raising my wand. The breeze is even stronger now and I draw my cloak around me. Today is a strange summer's day - to say the least. I'll have to risk my body getting rained on, I think as I place my wand near my forehead, my hand shaking somewhat.

I've felt as if I should die many, many times, but have never come this close to it - and only one time before have I had a choice in the matter, when I thought that all of my best friends were gone in one way or another. But Harry was there, then, even if he was being sent off to live with Muggles. That decides it, for, as I have thought so many times before, I lived for Harry these past few weeks. I press my wand deeper into my forehead, now it can't miss.

I hear a sob, I'm not sure if it's me or not. Is someone here? No, probably one of the grieving back at the funeral, I reassure myself. The breeze blows harder. Get it over with before someone comes!

_"Avada. . . ."_

"And what in Merlin's name are you doing, old wolf?"

Note: A bit of a cliffie, sorry! Anyway, unlike the previous chapters, this story will be kind of continued in the next chapter only in a different POV. It's hard to explain, but you'll just have to wait until next week! Mwahaha!


	9. Someone Else's Shoes

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Note: From what the books have said and the limited amount that's been heard from Jo in interviews, we don't know much about Tonks's personal history, so I made stuff up by myself. If you know something that contradicts it in canon or Jo's interviews, feel free to tell me in your review (hint hint, nudge nudge).

Note: I'm _really _sorry about the late update; I was just really busy last week and didn't have a chance to put this chapter up.

**Chapter 9: Someone Else's Shoes**

The biggest part of my childhood that I can remember is complaining about my name - Nymphadora. I mean, what type of fool mother would name their first-born daughter _Nymphadora_? Did Dad have any say in this? I would constantly ask my mother growing up. Why couldn't I have a normal name? I begged; since all the kids at the Muggle elementary school I attended teased me, especially when attendance was called at the beginning of the year.

Of course, Mum, her name's Andromeda (now that I think about it, I guess she wanted one of her children to continue the weird name legacy with), would ignore my complaints and give me one of her proverbial speeches. She told me that I should walk a mile in someone else's shoes before I complained about something as trivial as a name. I would always return with that, even if I didn't learn a lesson from it, at least I'm a mile away from the person and I have their shoes. That always cracked my Dad up and he would crow about how his 'little Dora,' was so funny; that would _really _get Mum started, she would always rant about how 'his daughter,' (you know, it's funny, I was always _his _daughter when I did something bad) got 'everything from _his _side of the family.'

I suppose she meant my cheekiness, that's how I get along with Ginny so well - she reminds me a lot of me when I was her age - except for what happened to her, she didn't deserve it. None of them did, none of _us _did. And only now am I beginning to understand that lifelong lesson that Mum taught me - only now when I'm risking my life for what I believe in as this nightmare of sorts goes on around me. Even the thought that there will be a rich reward at the end of all this - that the Darkness will be driven back - does not help to console me. It doesn't help to console anyone now that I think about it, now that I walk in their shoes.

Especially Remus. And I won't pretend to be an expert on such things, but it seems to me that Remus was affected the most drastically of all those assembled on that summer's night a few days ago; though it has seemed like an eternity in all that has happened since then.

And, when I walk in his shoes, I can understand how he feels, for he has lost every bit of family he has ever known, he has no one now. He has lost his brothers, his sister, and, most important of all, a son, Harry. I watched him over the summer before Harry's fifth year, saw him on the sidelines of sorts as he watched Harry, his affection for the boy plain on his careworn features. Of course Harry didn't notice; I suppose that it's a skill that comes with Auror training, reading someone's mind simply by how they hold themselves, what they look like. Proof of it was quite simple if what I heard from Kingsley and Mad-Eye was true, for he held Harry back from the veil, trying to save him and refusing to let him go. He tried to save the son of the Marauders and, even when he succeeded at first, failed in the end, lost everything. I can understand why he feels that way and I watch him pityingly, watching as he walks around the grounds, looking but not seeing, but at the same time mentally scolding myself.

For I remember when a similar thing happened to me, years ago now, but it happened nonetheless. When I was thirteen years old, my parents got divorced. I screamed and ranted and sobbed and wanted everyone to pity me at every possible moment. I thought that that was loss, but that was before I realized what loss really meant. I mean, I still see my parents, they're both here as a matter of fact, though Harry was nothing more to them than a famous name. They both came over to me and said hi, asked how I was doing in the Auror business, asked if I had met any guys yet (that was Mum), made normal conversation and then left, each to sit with their own friends. That isn't loss, let me tell you, what Remus has suffered is truly loss.

And Harry. . . . How could I have forgotten Harry, the guest of honor of sorts in all of this fanfare? For Harry lost his mother and father - the two most integral people in his life - at the age of one. He was sent to live with Muggles for ten years, was taken away from everything that made him who he was, was told who he was and had a gigantic role - that of the savior of the wizarding world - thrust upon him when he was only eleven! And, as if that weren't enough, at the age of fifteen, _right after _his godfather had died - the one person that meant everything to him the past few years - he was told that he had to kill Voldemort or Voldemort had to kill him in the end.

Dumbledore told us that when he tried to have a discussion with Harry in his office after that fateful battle in the Department of Mysteries, that Harry destroyed his office (although he didn't sound bitter when he explained it to us - rather, he sounded very, _very_ old). I can tell you one thing, though, that if _I _had been in Harry's position all those years and Dumbledore told me that, I would have done _much _more than that. . . . Why, Dumbledore's office would probably be in ruins when I was done with it and the prestigious headmaster himself would be out cold (thought from what Dumbledore told us it looked like Harry had been close to attacking him). Many people - Harry included - think of me as the cheerful yet clumsy Tonks, but when someone says something I don't like . . . well, I guess there's one thing I get from Mum's side of the family - my temper.

But the funny thing is that Harry never asked people to pity him, he just kept on going despite the odds. And I know that if _I _were him, if I was in his shoes, I would be wishing that if only I could just be named Nymphadora or Andromeda or Lucius or Remus, or any other strange name instead of being in this horror that had become my life.

_Or Remus. . . ._ Now there's one person I know that can't keep going forever with a life like his, one person that is going to break sooner or later, and one person that needs a motive to continue on. Because not all people can be the savior of the wizarding world.

_Or Remus. . . . _I believe that I can be that motive, even if I only provide a shoulder to cry on (real men cry, that's what my Dad has always said) and a friend to talk to. Yes, I decide and I stand up, determinedly, searching for him. He is going to talk to me whether he likes it or not. I suppose that that's a mixture of Mum, Auror training, and conversations with Dumbledore (aka - the school psychologist), over my seven years at Hogwarts.

_Or Remus. . . ._ There is a scream and I scan the grounds for who it was, it was a female, I know that much, so it can't be Remus. However, I don't find out who it is for now I see him walking purposefully across the Pitch now. There's something wrong, I can tell and I follow him (though not without knocking over a few folding chairs in the process). Remus needs help, even if he won't admit it - even to himself.

_Or Remus. . . ._ He is skirting the Forbidden Forest now, glancing around; I watch from a safe distance (trying to make as little noise as is possible) as he now almost runs into the Forest. I start going once again, limping in my black, high-heeled boots and stumbling on a root once. Fortunately, a gust of wind goes through the trees at the same time, hopefully muffling my fall and my curse. Damn things! Why'd I have to wear them, anyway? I know exactly why: because I didn't expect to be stalking a depressed werewolf over the grounds of Hogwarts.

_Or Remus. . . ._ With another flick of my wand, my boots are Transfigured into more comfortable black tennis shoes; they don't exactly match my dress robes, but neither did the boots. . . . Whatever, I was never much for fashion.

_Or Remus. . . ._ I continue walking and peek through the trees to see Remus standing a bit into the Forest, his wand pressed to his forehead. _No, he's not, he can't be, _is my first thought and I let out a dry, soft sob.

_Or Remus. . . ._ I hear him say, _"Avada. . . ."_ as if in a trance and I notice that his voice is strangely choked. Dad's right, real men _do _cry, and I'm not letting this real man walk away from me.

"And what in Merlin's name are you doing, old wolf?" I ask. Not the most eloquent way to stop someone from suicide, but I didn't have much time to plan it out. However, it has the desired effect, he jumps, startled, dropping his wand and turning to face me. Good, I have the element of surprise, which isn't often because of my clumsiness.

However, what I don't have is Remus's usual patience. Instead, he snaps, "Go away, Tonks," while picking up his wand, brushing the dirt off of it and glaring at me as if I've interrupted him in something very important, instead of the ending of his own life.

"No," I say stubbornly, placing my hands on my hips and trying to look like Molly does when addressing the twins after they've pulled some prank. He raises his eyebrow at me and I can only guess that my imitation has much to be desired. "What's wrong?" I ask as I drop the guise.

"Nothing. You wouldn't understand."

"I understand more than you think I do, Moony." It's true, I know, I've walked in his shoes.

"Don't c-call me th-that," he sputters, his face white with rage, yet his eyes suspiciously transparent despite their feral glow, looking as if he's about to turn right into the werewolf, otherwise known as Moony.

"Why not?" I demand. "Talk to me, Remus! Stop wallowing in your self-pity and talk for once! Harry would want you to live, Remus!"

I know that I've hit his soft spot - Harry - as the flush slowly creeps back into his cheeks and he opens his mouth to speak. "I'm no one," he says simply and turns away.

"No, you aren't!" I say fiercely. "Didn't you listen to a word Harry's will said?"

"Don't bring Harry into this," Remus mutters, his back still to me. "He has nothing. . . ."

"He has _everything _to do with this and don't you say otherwise!" I reprimand, moving toward him, but tripping on another root. Blasted things! "Harry wanted you to start teaching again, _Harry _wanted you to forget you're a werewolf and everyone else wants you to, too! You were something to Harry, Remus."

"Harry's gone now."

I continue as if I haven't heard him. "All those kids out there, you were the best DADA teacher they ever had, Remus! To those of us in the Order, you're a friend, Remus, a good, strong, loyal friend! They don't care that you're a werewolf, _I _don't care that you're a werewolf! You're something to me, Remus, you're _everything_ to me! Don't let me lose that, don't let me lose you, you old, organized, werewolf! Please, Remus, don't let me lose that!" I'm speaking without thinking now, my composure lost entirely. I never planned on telling him this when I came to talk - I planned on making _him _feel better, but this is turning out to be another of my own self-pity sessions, it seems.

Then there are arms around me, strong arms that I've only ever dreamt of holding me before. "You're something to me too," he whispers, his voice choked and I imagine that he's talking over a lump in his throat.

"Real men cry," I say through my own tears and I see him smile before, to my utter surprise, he kisses me; and it's not one of those tiny pecks either, this is a full-fledged kiss. I return it, my lips easily succumbing to his, and, in that windy forest glade it sounds like there is a slight laugh and a slight ray of sun shines down on us.

I don't even think about it, but what I am thinking about is being in Remus's shoes - something I've become quite adept at by now. And I know that we're both thinking the same thing - we've found someone and neither of us has lost.

Note: I really do love Tonks/Remus romance; one, I think that they both compliment each other - Remus is the more rational and mannerly person, but Tonks's exuberant attitude keeps him from being too . . . stuffy. God, I hate to use any negative words in relation to Remus! Also, I think of myself as Tonks at certain times (overly cheerful, talks _a lot_, though, sadly, I cannot change my mundane appearance), and, as mentioned several . . . OK, more than several, times, I am desperately in love with Remus, so hey - me, as Tonks and Remus. It works perfectly! Well, it would've been even better if Jo had introduced Luna's not-before-mentioned older sister to fall in love with Remus, but, hey, take what you can get.

Note: Next chapter - Mad-Eye Moody's POV. It took me a _long _time to think of something to write for Moody and then I just kept on losing the will to write, but my muse managed to get me off my butt and I'm pretty proud of this chapter.


	10. Seeing the Light

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter . . . gah, I can't think of anything creative. Blame it on the seventh book - I'm still in mourning here, people!

Note: I'm sorry, I know I haven't updated for two weeks, but I do have reasons! The first week was the Tuesday before the OotP movie, which, in my opinion, is utterly awesome. J Then, last Tuesday, it was only a few days until DH (whoa, it's so weird that Book 7 actually has its own little abbreviation thingy now!) and I was really hyper and bugging everyone, so it, er . . . kinda sorta slipped my mind. ducks rotten tomato I know, I'm sorry!

Then, today, a few days after the fateful DH (go abbreviation thingy!) has been released, I am still in mourning (for who, look below, but if you haven't finished the book, scroll past, eyes closed, humming _Hedwig's Theme _- well, not really the humming, but the other part). But, nevertheless, my conscience (and muse) got to me and that is why I am sitting here, typing this right now.

_Rest in Peace:_

-Remus John Lupin - the werewolf who stole my heart

-Nymphadora ("don't call me that!") Tonks

-Fred Weasley

-Colin Creevey

-Severus Snape - may Lily lead you into Heaven

-Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody

-Ted Tonks

-Gornuk the Goblin

-Dobby (more than) a House Elf

-Hedwig the Snowy Owl

-Rufus Scrimgeour

-Charity Burbage the Random Professor

-Bathilda Bagshot

-Regulus Arcturus Black, defender of house-elves

-James and Lily Potter

-Sirius Orion (?) Black

-Albus Percivale Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

-Ariana Dumbledore

-Percival Dumbledore

-Kendra Dumbledore

-Cedric Diggory

-Bertha Jorkins

-Frank Bryce

-Amelia Bones

-Emmeline Vance

-Peter Pettigrew - only for his unwitting help

-All Muggles, Muggleborns, half-bloods, "blood traitors" and others slaughtered during Voldemort's reign of terror

Yes, I know that was an extensive list, but I felt that I needed to contain anyone and everyone who was killed throughout the seven books. After all, the war wasn't just in DH, it was at its climax there, yes, but it "started" per se in GoF where some of these people lost their lives.

**Chapter 10: Seeing the Light**

People say a ton of things about old Mad-Eye, some of them facts, some of them rumors embroidered beyond belief, and some of them pure lies that unscrupulous, conniving sneaks come up with.

They say that he lost part of his nose to that Muggle-torturing fool, Rosier.

That is true.

They say that he lost his eye during the desperate struggle to get to Gideon and Fabian Prewett before it was too late. Well, it was; brave lads those two were.

That is true.

They say that he's so paranoid that, upon thinking one of his presents was a basilisk egg, smashed it to bits before realizing that it was a carriage clock. It _did _look quite a bit like a basilisk egg, though.

That is true.

And these rumor-mongers also say that Mad-Eye Moody was one of the most brutal Aurors to ever walk the face of this Earth.

That is _not _true.

I'll testify to being a tough and valiant Auror in front of the whole damn Wizengamot. However, anyone who I _ever _hear saying that I am a brutal Auror, one that deserves Azkaban just as much as any of the Death Eaters, find themselves with a stubborn jinx on them which cannot be displaced with a simple _"Finite Incantatem."_

I'm not Barty Crouch, not one to think that death is the greatest punishment of all. Death Eaters deserve far more than a Kiss or, in the older days, a push through the veil. No, they deserve to relive what they've done, hear the screams of the innocents they've killed as they rot away in a cell where only fellow prisoners can hear their screams, especially _those ones_.

Those ones who said they were ridding the world of evil - Muggles, Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and blood traitors who didn't deserve to be wizards, in other words who opposed them and their pure-blood mania. An odd definition of evil if you ask me, when they, to most of the wizarding world, were the evil ones. No, not the Death Eaters, the Knights of Walpurgis. Knights, it's a mockery, a mockery, I tell you! Aren't knights the ones who are supposed to ride in on snow-white horses and save the day? From what Muggle literature I've read, that sounds about right.

But not these knights, not the knights that came to our house one evening and tortured my mother and father into insanity where they died in St. Mungo's an hour later, simply for defending what they knew was right. A lot like Longbottom's parents now that I think of it, but he has to live with what's happened to them as he visits them during the holidays. He's a brave lad, standing up there at Potter's casket. Braver than me, anyway. . . .

Braver than that army of knights - for they only dared to attack in groups - that nearly killed me as I made a run for freedom. Freedom that my parents had sacrificed themselves for - freedom for me, freedom for the wizarding world. Not the knights that caused me to have a peg leg at thirteen years of age and to have to gaze down at my parent's blank faces as I was taken away from the only life I had ever known. No, not those knights.

However, these travesties of knights did teach me one thing - inadvertently, of course - for, as I gazed down at my parent's lifeless bodies that dreary day much like today, I knew that I would never stoop to their level, to Barty Crouch's level. I would only kill when necessary.

"Nobility," some would call it. "Bravery beyond measure, he deserves an Order of Merlin - Second Class, at least!" others would insist. However, if one were to look up 'nobility' in the dictionary, you wouldn't find my face next to it. Would probably scare some students out of their wits if it were.

No, I don't call it nobility, I call it doing what you have to do, for never have I done a less noble act. For it is not for them that I show mercy (if you can call being sent to an earth-bound hell for the rest of your life, mercy), but for myself.

It's pathetic, I know. Crazy that a tough Auror such as myself is afraid of . . . well . . . do you really need to know? After all, I've gone through life just fine without anyone knowing. Not even close to knowing. All they've seen is the constantly swiveling eye, the broken nose, the mockery of a human face, the peg leg. . . .

They've seen Mad-Eye. They haven't seen Alastor or Al, as my parents used to call me. For that's how I like to think of myself, two entirely different facets of the same person, much like in that Muggle novel, can't think of the name of it right now.

Of course things are never as simple in life as they are in books, and my facets aren't obvious. I don't morph into a raging animal or start howling at the moon now and again. No, not like that, you have to look closer. Thank Merlin that not many have; for if they had, they may have seen a slight translucence in my eye (the normal one), during the will-reading, a tiny falter in my step, despite that damned peg leg while approaching his body, his corpse.

The corpse, or rather, the boy, that saw Al. He was one of the few who could, him and Dumbledore. Of course, Albus knows everything that goes on, but _him_? He is (or rather, was), a mere boy, yet he sees more than people give him credit for. He saw past the monster that many people think werewolves to be and saw Remus Lupin, he saw past abysmal Neville and saw talented Auror Longbottom (that _does _have a nice ring to it), and, most difficult of all, he saw past Mad-Eye, he saw Al, the not-so-noble Auror. The Auror that's afraid of one of the main things we deal with - bodies. Bodies and what they go hand-in-hand with - death.

And he knew that! Goddamn it, the boy _knew _that and he used it to his advantage! He _knew _that Aurors would come to retrieve him after the battle with Voldemort; he _knew _that I would come to retrieve him as an experienced former Auror and a member of the Order; he _knew _that I would have to see the, well . . . the body and. . . .

He made me face it, he's a pretty sensible lad now that I stop and think about it. After all, can I really avoid going to fellow colleagues funerals or killing a Death Eater in a skirmish? Would I have the heart to not attend Albus's funeral when the time comes - as much as I hate to think of it - for his death? No, I answer myself, I wouldn't, but I need to face it someday - whether in the loss of a loved one or in . . . passing on myself.

And I certainly don't want to face the facts of death when I'm walking down that dark tunnel. I'd probably panic and start beating at the darkness, tearing at it, trying to break through it as we are so close to doing right now. For, it doesn't seem as if the Darkness can hold out much longer now that Voldemort's gone; instead, we're moving toward the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Just as I should be doing.

Well, that settles it. Lifting myself onto my mismatched feet with a groan, I begin to limp my way down the aisle toward the . . . the casket. I remember well the last time I did this - a much-younger Albus asking me if I'd like to say goodbye, him grasping me warmly by the shoulders as he led me down the aisle that rainy morning, me crying ever so slightly as I saw my parent's bodies. A tear makes its way down my cheek now and I hastily twist my face into a menacing snarl, casting both eyes around beadily, checking if anyone saw. I do have a reputation to uphold after all. But, no, there's only Tonks stumbling over her own feet as usual. _How _she got to be an Auror, I'll never know; she could give anyone away with that clumsiness of hers. . . .

Longbottom's left by now, so I have a clear view of the casket. The thing's covered with jewels and other sundry treasures, but my eyes pass over that, moving, instead, to the most valuable treasure in the wizarding world - up until a few days ago, that is. Then, they'll bury him under the earth and Harry Potter will become only a legend told to young children for a bedtime story as my parents told the tales of King Arthur to me as a child.

I shudder, hoping that other grievers attribute it only to the cold wind. Harry - yes, _Harry_, not 'boy,' not 'lad' - will be forgotten, just as my parents were forgotten as heroes, just as Gideon and Fabian were forgotten, just as countless others were forgotten, even in the hearts and souls and minds of those who loved and knew him. Won't we?

With immense difficulty, I force myself to look straight into the blank, unseeing eyes of the Boy-Who-Lived. There's nothing there, he's dead. He's gone. Forever. I turn to leave, but, just then, spot something on the boy's face. It's so subtle, I barely notice it but it's there. There _is _something! I almost feel like screaming it to the heavens - and, inadvertently, to the many assembled here - but I'm expected to be "Mad-Eye" Moody after all, not a boy, not Al. Nevertheless, there, on Harry's face, is a sense of peace. He'd done what he set out to do and now he can reap his well-deserved reward. He can be with his parents and that reckless godfather of his, can see my parents, too. And he's still looking down, is still alive in our hearts, just as my parents are alive in my heart - having a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter's night, reading together for hours on end when weather kept us indoors. And I'll see them again, experience that wonderful feeling of camaraderie that I've never felt since I was thirteen - even with Albus - it's only a matter of time.

I smile warmly, almost forgetting to change my mouth to a grim line as I turn around. I swear that I saw those photographers looking at me oddly. Yes, a great picture for a blaring headline (most likely by that Skeeter woman): _Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody Caught Smiling: Has He Gone Crazy?_. I let out a small chuckle, surprised at my own daring. Why, at this rate, most of the Order may see beyond Mad-Eye. What's happening?

However, I know that this is a feeble question, for I know the answer. Simply put, my name is Alastor Moody, and I have seen the light.

And I know without a doubt, that that is true.

Note: Well, I hope you liked it. I don't exactly know when the next chapter - Snape's PoV - is going to be up; I'm working on some song fics right now, but I can promise that it's going to be good, especially with the new information that's come to light from DH. I always suspected something like that, though never to that extent. However, there will be some humorous one-shots up soon that I've already written which might help with the wait.

Would you help a poor, tortured soul who has lost her one true (fictional) love and review?

_Please?_


	11. His Mother's Son

Disclaimer: Yup, still don't own it. Place your own remark about Remus here.

Note: -ducks rotten tomato thrown at head- Yes, I know I took forever on this chapter, sorry! But . . . I do have excuses . . . and I know you don't want to hear them! Anyway, if you're still around, enjoy Chapter 11 in Snape's POV for all you Sevvie fans out there. J

Note: This is the last note, I promise! There are _minor _DH spoilers just in case you haven't read the book and if you haven't, what are you doing on this site?!

**Chapter 11: His Mother's Son**

_Why?_

_Why, why, why, why, why?_ If one were to try and penetrate my defenses now, I have no doubt that they would find it astonishingly easy - even for someone like Weasley - though strangely unprofitable. All my memories seem to have vanished into an endless black hole - of my father tormenting my mother, of Potter and Black using me as sport, of the faceless men, women, and children who I slaughtered, turning my own fury on those who had stood and jeered at me as a student, now begging me for mercy before they were claimed by that endless black hole.

The black hole that claimed the main scourge in my life - Potter.

And, yes, the Dark Lord, too, I suppose.

_Why?_ I just don't understand.

I watch the Weasley girl talking to her mother after a hysterical dash across the grounds, Lupin wandering aimlessly - idiot man. They've had quite their share of "whys" - "why did he leave me?", "why did he die when he had so much to live for?". How sickeningly melodramatic, I feel the urge to throw up.

But I don't, I remain, rigid, sitting here on this metal folding chair for the funeral of the boy that has been the bane of my life ever since he entered this school . . . no, before that, when that proud, bigheaded father of his brought him to that Order meeting and the pestilential brat found the sudden urge to spit up on my robes. I hate the very air that he breathes . . . that by now he has stopped breathing. Yet, I am still sitting here.

_Why?_

It's not as if attendance is mandatory. Why, Albus has done nothing short of locking himself in his office - courtesy of Potter's final, arrogant demand. If the headmaster himself isn't here, I - the greasy Potions Master - definitely shouldn't be. By now I should have uncorked those bottles of mulled mead that Albus insists on giving me for Christmas; I should be dancing around the dungeons like a madman, my only companion a hired witch, found on a street corner. Ah, bliss. . . .

But I have still not made any move to secure this blissful fantasy, for, against all odds, against the very _laws of nature_, I am still sitting here.

Why?

I detest the boy. Truly, I do. He's the spitting image of his father: arrogant, athletic, popular, surrounded by friends and adoring fans. Hell, he even has a redhead going for him!

Part of me knows that that is not the truth. True, I know he cherished his friends and keeping the boy away from Quidditch is like keeping a fish out of water, but still. . . . That tiny, unbiased part of me sees beyond his surname and irritatingly untamable black hair (so like his father's) and looks closer . . . to see how discomfited he became whenever someone's eyes raked his hairline, searching for the telltale lightning-bolt scar, to see his utter terror and mortification at being chosen as the fourth Triwizard champion, to see the utter desperation, afraid that the Dark Lord was gaining entrance to his mind through that scar - relic of his survival and symbol of his celebrity status.

The status that his arrogant, bullheaded father would have _adored_, basking in the glow that the lightning-shaped mark afforded him - scheduling interviews and press conference, beaming and preening at so many journalists and cameramen, Black at his side. _Ugh. . . ._ Vomit rises in me again.

But his son . . . James Potter's _son_. That tiny, unbiased part of me speaks again: it was easy to see that the boy loathed everything about it - the constant glances to his forehead, the strange, unbidden connection with the Dark Lord, and, perhaps most importantly, what it cost him to obtain, his parents - saw it in that one feature not inherited from his father, his eyes. Lily's eyes.

It is in his eyes that I see Lily Evans, my best - _only _- friend from childhood who accepted me for who I was rather than those who called themselves friends, who changed me into a man that, eventually, even _I_ could barely recognize. It was Lily who, in her extraordinary kindness, saw past the surface - my hooked nose, my greasy hair and pallid face (that students today, dunderheads that they are, still whisper and giggle about once in the safety of dormitories or secluded library corners) - and saw Severus. _Sev._ My lips curl upward slightly at the name, but not before they are countered by several pearly tears.

_Why? Why am I crying? Why am I even _here

To honor Lily, honor her sacrifice? Undoubtedly.

But for _Potter_? Harry Potter, the _Boy-Who-Lived_, son of James Potter - my childhood tormentor - and the "youngest Seeker in a century." Harry Potter, befriender of incompetents like Longbottom and, well . . . I'm not quite sure _what_ to call her, like Miss Lovegood. Harry Potter, founder - well, _co-_founder, something tells me Miss Granger had something to do with it - of the DA, which gave even the most imbecilic a chance if what I heard from Albus was correct. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Loves. Harry Potter, son of Lily Evans.

I look up at the casket now, surrounded by well-wishers, and sigh. His eyes will be closed now, my slight connection to Lily through those eyes - no matter the face they stared out from - gone. Yet . . . the truth nudges at me irritatingly, perhaps it doesn't matter. Lily Evans's only son is dead - yes, there's no point denying it. Yet . . . _yet_, he remains in every act, every person he touched with his kindness, reflected in Lily's eyes. _He is indeed his mother's son._

"Goddamn you, Potter," I growl and, for a moment, I am sure I hear his soft, mocking laugh in the breeze - _so like his father's _- before a timid step approaches me, effects of Potter, no doubt.

_Damn you, Potter. Really._ "Yes, Longbottom?"

Note: Well, I hope you liked it. Personally, I'm not a one for cuddly Snape -shudder- so I tried to make him as canon (git-like) as possible while still making him - dare I say it? - human!

Next chapter is McGonagall's POV and I only have a vague idea of what I'm going to do with it. I was thinking something along the lines of Harry vs. James and/or the Marauders vs. the Golden Trio. If anyone has any ideas, please put them in your review or PM me.

OK, I've come up with a different way to make you guys review. For all you Snape fans out there, anyone who reviews will get a highly depressed Severus, staggered from the loss of Lily. Any takers? (All other reviewers will be presented with any other character of their choice - I'll even lend you Remus!). J

**PLEASE REVIEW!!!**


	12. The Next Marauders

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Remus would still be alive. Enough said.

**Chapter 12: The Next Marauders**

It is impossible for me to look anywhere and not be reminded of them - both of them. The birch tree by the lake where both would recline in various states - reading, joking, maybe eating a Chocolate Frog or two. The Quidditch Pitch where all excelled, either in the game itself or in mere team spirit - bedecked out in scarves and rosettes (though, I must admit, Miss Lovegood's hat gave everyone a run for their money). Even empty classrooms hold their ghosts, remnants of their pasts: Harry, practicing for the Tournament with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger; James, planning some prank or other (though his excuses are legendary, going over Quidditch tactics indeed!) with the members of his little gang - Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. They fashioned themselves "the Marauders," but there were many . . . 'nicknames' for them throughout the school.

"Potter and That Egotistical Gang of His," was one of Severus and Lily Evans's favorites.

"Those Adorable Quidditch Stars (Even Remus Lupin, He's _Such _a Flirt)!" was another uttered by those whom I like to think are the mothers of Misses Patil and Brown. At least _that _would explain it. . . .

Myself, I called them "Those Interminable Pains in My Arse" (excuse my language), endearing though they were . . . up to a point. One can only listen to a dig on the Slytherin Quidditch team so many times while trying to teach a lesson. . . .

Years passed, new staff appointments were made, more pranks were pulled. Then . . . _they_ came, bringing with them their own set of titles.

"Potty, the Weasel, and That Mudblood," is what I have heard many Slytherins jeer.

Severus Snape of course, unable to give up his childhood grudges, has sneeringly referred to them as "The Golden Trio" or, in his more spiteful moments, the same title used in his adolescence along with Miss Evans.

However, amongst myself and some of the older Hogwarts faculty, they will always be "The Next Marauders." I am referring, of course, to Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.

Throughout my years here, there have been many pranksters who, unwittingly, have earned the title of "Marauders" from the staff - particularly Mr. Filch - the Weasley twins prominent among them. I am sure that no present Hogwarts alumni will forget their swamp or the subsequent ostentatious exit from Hogwarts for years to come.

Just as much, I highly doubt whether any Hogwarts student - perhaps the parents of those who are wizard-born - will forget the Christmas of 1975 when the suits of armor were bewitched to sing dirty versions of certain carols (and they all think Peeves got the idea himself, as if he had that same creative brilliance); or that fine summer's day at the end of their sixth year when I myself was chased around the grounds by a certain large, black dog. . . .

However, if one were to ask these same past students, they would tell you about something else the Marauders possessed, something that I have rarely seen such large quantities of: friendship. No, more than friendship - brotherhood - what marks the difference between pranksters and Marauders; what makes Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger, in my opinion, "the Next Marauders." Going over their school years in my head, one incident in particular stands out. . . .

_"Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?""Potter! Black! Where do you think you are going?"_

_"Hermione. We haven't seen her in ages,"It's Remus, Professor. He's been in_

_Professor." hospital for a few days now. . . ."_

_"-and we thought we'd sneak into "We thought that, erm . . . _it_ might have_

_the hospital wing. . . ." been worse than usual."_

_"-and tell her that the Mandrakes are"So we thought we'd go visit him, to_

_nearly ready and, er, not to worry." cheer him up. Maybe bring him a toilet_

_seat or two. . . . I was _joking_, Professor!"_

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I - as the head of Gryffindor - was closest to these two groups (both in discipline and camaraderie) but, for some inexplicable reason, I am suddenly barraged with memories of them. The day Mulciber and Avery were found with large, pus-filled pustules all over their body (after further questioning, they sullenly admitted to having cursed a certain Remus Lupin); Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger's pale faces as they sat by Harry's bed in the hospital wing, unsure if he would wake up or not. Dreadful dementors. . . .

However, this time it wasn't dementors. This time, they know he won't wake up again. We all know. Sniffing deeply, I wipe hastily at my eyes with a tartan handkerchief. To see a friendship - no, _friendships_, for hasn't Remus suffered just as much, two of his best friends dead and one a traitor? - torn asunder so quickly and mercilessly. I can hardly even bear it. . . .

My eyes scan the area deftly, finally spotting them walking across the grounds with Hagrid, each with a hand on his lower back as if hoping to steady the large, tottering man, his face swollen with tears. As I watch, they joins young Miss Weasley and Dean Thomas, both of whom greet the three with sympathetic smiles. Fred and George Weasley's trademark red hair is visible as they turn in their seats to greet them, seeming slightly more somber than usual despite their grins and jokes. Miss Lovegood and Neville Longbottom - his hand awkwardly resting on her shoulder - sit down next to Hermione, Luna giving a slightly dreamy smile, Neville a nervous hand raised in greeting. Surprisingly, Remus Lupin and young Nymphadora Tonks, holding hands and rather pink in the face, join this motley group as well, eyes never leaving each other's faces.

Glancing from the small group to the casket to the many, many mourners milling about, and back to that same strange band of Harry's friends, I notice another pair of eyes studying it - Severus Snape. Almost as if he feels me watching him he turns, catching my eye and, in that moment, I know he's thinking the same as me (something that I doubt has happened between any Gryffindor and Slytherin since the great Godric and Salazar themselves).

_These _are the Next Marauders.

This is the legacy Harry has left behind, this crew of misfits who are bonded by their unwavering, undying friendship. "Blood traitors," Muggleborns, and werewolves alike, they _are _the Next Marauders.

Catching my eye again, I watch as Severus gives me a smile - not a smirk or a sneer, a _smile_ - and, once again, I can tell we're thinking the same thing.

_Here we go again. . . ._

Note: Hmm, this chapter didn't go quite the way I expected it to. . . . What do you guys think? Guys? Anyway, next chapter (the fabled LAST CHAPTER) is from Dumbledore's point-of-view. That's basically going to show what happened after Harry left the afterlife at the end of _The Death of the Savior _(the prequel to this fic) and . . . well, I don't want to spoil it. I hope to have it up soon, though!

Please tell me what you thought!


	13. Forgiveness

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own it. If I did Remus would be alive. -sob-

Note: Sorry for the delay in updating - I meant to have it up sooner . . . _but_ I do have an excuse (don't I always?). Scratch that, I have a _good _excuse! Yes, mwahaha! I was actually in a car accident on Monday; I wasn't injured but my car is basically totaled and over the past few days I've been calling anyone and everyone to fix my car and trying to arrange rides to work. I have made very little headway on the former (mostly since all the people I talk to seem intent on passing on the work to someone else). Can't we just get this over with already? I need my car fixed!

Ahem, yes, sorry about that little rant up there. But here is the fabled _**final chapter**_in Dumbledore's PoV. Enjoy!

**Chapter 13: Forgiveness**

You know, noses serve many different purposes. Vaguely, it occurs to me whether anyone has ever taken the time to notice that, so prominently situated as they are upon one's face. Naturally, they are able to sniff out food and allow one to enjoy those simple pleasures of life in mere scents - freshly-mown grass, the smell of spring, or the crispy air of fall. I once knew a wizard whose nose would begin to twitch uncontrollably at any sign of danger.

And, for still others, noses serve as a means of anger management, consisting of breaking the aforementioned nose. Mine in particular. Aberforth, then Remus. . . . Fred Weasley may have even gotten a slight swipe in there when I - in my Animagus form, of course - flew down just to view the proceedings. Gently, I finger the bridge of my nose, wincing. Still tender. There is only so much magic can do. . . .

Magic can't fix a broken heart.

Magic can't get rid of the burden of a destiny.

Magic can't bring a dead boy back to life.

So concerned was I about my master plan - the defeat of Lord Voldemort - that I did not think of the well-being of the boy that I was trying to protect . . . protect until the time was right. This was a mistake I swore I would never make again . . . not after Ariana. Running fingers over my old and wrinkled cheeks, I can't help but bury my face in my hands and groan. Several of the portraits give me concerned looks, having heard the news by now, of course. Phineas seems especially opinionated about the whole thing.

"For Merlin's sake, Albus. If you want to go so bad, _go_. . . ." he drawls, picking dust off of his sleek robes. A few of the portraits send Phineas reprimanding looks - Armando Dippet in particular. Fawkes himself lets out an angry cry, he was always rather fond of Harry. _Harry. . . . _

"That boy has no right to bar you from anywhere. You are the _headmaster_. Children have no respect these days, none at all. . . ."

"Phineas, please. . . ." My voice sounds overly weary, even to my own ears but I do not have the patience to listen to one of Phineas's long-winded lectures.

However, Phineas either does not hear me or chooses to talk right on, for he bull-headedly goes on. "Personally, _I _think he's being selfish, not even allowing you to come see him one last time. We all know how much you cared for the boy. Merlin knows why, but _still_. . . ."

"Quiet, Phineas!" I grate out, much more harshly than usual. There is a murmuring around the walls as Phineas gazes down at me, thunderstruck, and falls silent.

_Selfish. Harry._ Those two words alone send tears to my eyes.Harry was _never _selfish, even in the last moments of his life he faced his destiny, unswerving, losing his own life in order to save others' lives. _I_, if anything, was the selfish one . . . so focused on my master plan (both in my adolescence and now) that I didn't care who had to be hurt to get there. . . .

Whose childhood had to be forgone.

Whose life had to be forfeited.

Burying my face once more in shaking, long-fingered hands, I let out a deep sniff. . . . _What have you done, old man?_

Suddenly, a collective gasp issues from the portraits; unable to face their sympathetic gazes or "helpful" opinions on the whole matter, I do not even glance up.

"I can't believe it," I hear Dilys breathe. "Oh, dear Merlin, I just can't believe it."

Turning to face the former Healer's portrait, I see the old and stately witch with a hand clutched to her heart. And, following her blue-eyed gaze, I clutch at my own, barely daring to breathe, as if one slight wind might blow him away. . . .

_Harry._

Pale and transparent as a ghost, he still maintains the same messy hair of his father, the same beautiful eyes - yes, even as a ghost - of his mother. However, although he is still, unmistakably, Harry, I can see that this is not the same teenage boy of a mere few weeks ago. Why, the Harry Potter of a few weeks prior was a boy with a monumental burden on his shoulders, a boy who was angry at the world - for what he had been put through and what he had still to do. But now. . . .

Now he is free. Worry lines have been erased from his face, his eyes are brighter, his smile gentler. Upon looking closer, I see no familiar lightning-bolt scar, the mark of his duty to the wizarding world, the defeat of Lord Voldemort.

Slowly, he advances into the room; I bow my head, unable to face those penetrating green eyes. It is as if the positions have been reversed - I, the unruly student and he, the reproving authority. But can I blame him? It was I, after all, who caused him all this pain - not only in the burden of the prophecy but, as a mere infant, leaving him with Petunia Dursley and her incredible anti-wizard values, taking him away from the place where he really belonged. . . .

"Professor?" Harry's voice echoes as if coming from far away. He comes to stand in front of my desk, hovering uncertainly over the adjacent wooden chair.

_All my fault. It was all my fault and now I shall receive my just reward. _Slowly, feeling more than ever like a student again, I face him.

I open my mouth several times, wanting to say something, _anything_ but unable to articulate it. _What is there _to _say?_ "Hello, Harry," I finally manage, my voice nearly a whisper.

Perhaps it has to do with his mother's incredible kindness or the fact that he always puts others' needs before his own or maybe that he's just _Harry_ - a perfect combination of all these factors - but as he hears my soft, weak voice his eyes grow pained and, gently, he places a transparent hand over my own wrinkled one. Surprisingly, rather than the usual feeling of being doused with cold water, a peculiar warmth spreads up my body. I cannot help but smile to myself.

_Only Harry. . . ._

Drawing his hand back to his side and now looking slightly nervous himself, Harry meets my eyes straight-on looking as if he is steeling himself for something. Then, "I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore." Almost immediately, he begins examining his worn-out trainers, now afraid to meet _my _gaze.

Gasps echo through the room at Harry's words; Phineas alone looks smug.

"Harry, dear boy, what could you _possibly _have to be sorry for?" I ask, echoing my portrait's sentiments and ignoring Phineas's surreptitious snort. "If anything it is _I_. . . ."

"I'm the one that wrote those horrible things to you. I didn't know, sir. I didn't understand, but . . . but now I do. I'm so sorry, Professor."

"Understand _what_, Harry?" Once again, it feels as if the roles have been reversed. Usually it is Harry who peppers me with questions about Voldemort, his scar, anything and everything to do with the war and it is I who apologize for my mistake - an old man's mistake.

_And here is one of my many, _many _mistakes._

"That you cared," he replies simply. "Everything that happened to me hurt you just as much, Professor. I know it did, I saw it. . . ."

"_Saw_ it? Harry, my boy, I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"In the final battle, with Voldemort. I was dueling him and, I don't know, I had a vision - no, not a vision, more a - a flashback, I suppose - and you were at the Dursleys. And you said . . . you said how much you didn't want to leave me there and . . . how much you lo-"

"Of course I loved you, Harry; you were like a grandson to me!" I exclaim suddenly, cutting Harry off before he can finish that dreaded sentence. "I still do as a matter of fact. But answer me this, would a man who loved you have left you with Muggles as a child? Would a man who loved you have put you in incredible amounts of danger all these years, would he have you be _killed_ just to fulfill his master plan? His all-important master plan?! A man who _truly _cared for you would not have done that." I have stood up by this point, my hands splayed on the desk as I lean forward toward Harry, shaking with grief.

"You have come here askingfor forgiveness, Harry," I choke out, "but it is _I_ who should be begging it of you."

Harry stares at me sadly, his own ghostly eyes shining with tears - tears that he will never let fall. "Why do you think there is any necessary, Professor?" he asks. "I'm done. It's over."

"But Harry, your life. . . ."

Harry shakes his head. "It means nothing, Professor; think of all the lives I've _saved_. Ron and Hermione, Neville, Luna, Hagrid, Ginny-" his eyes soften slightly at the name - "Professor Lupin, Tonks . . . you. I'm done, Professor; I'll be with my parents now. . . ."

I notice that his voice trails off somewhat nervously at this last statement and Fawkes obviously does, too. Spreading his vast, flame-colored wings, he flies over to land deftly on one of my spindly, silver knick-knacks, one of those that - incidentally - Harry broke during our last meeting. I notice him look at it bashfully and I smile slightly but next moment this is forgotten as Fawkes opens his mouth and begins to sing.

I have heard phoenix song several times before but never quite like this. It is - for lack of a better word - art, one note melding into the next, all blending together to melt all my worries and fears away, to make what is happening around me seem almost surreal.

And, amidst the phoenix song in this surreal reality, slowly, ever so slowly, the ghost or shade of a young girl squeezes herself out of the silver instrument. Dressed in an old-fashioned style, her hair is blonde and curly, falling only a little past her shoulders. But her eyes . . . how they twinkled when she smiled, how they would almost seem to dance when she laughed at one of the jokes Aberforth or I told her. Usually Aberforth . . . she loved that one about the goat and the firewhiskey. . . .

Almost seeming to glide across the room, she takes Harry's hand in hers, smiling at me, eyes twinkling. _Even all these years later. . . ._

I open my mouth to say something but, once again, find myself lost for words. What would be the right words _to _say? _"I'm sorry."_?_ "I didn't mean for it to happen."_? How can any of those words express the horrible crime that I committed - the ultimate betrayal to the girl I swore to protect?

However, before she can say anything, she places a hand over mine, just as Harry did. Once again, I am doused in that lovely feeling of warmth, of love.

"Albus," she whispers, her voice tender. "Albus." And we both know no more words are necessary.

I smile at her, albeit rather shakily and she smiles back. Bringing her small, transparent hand up to my face, she swipes it across my face and eyes as if to wipe away the tears now falling steadily. The last thing I see is Ariana's gentle smile before everything goes black.

Note: So. . . . How did you like it? And, before you ask, no, Dumbledore did _not _die (I don't know if the ending might have implied that to some of you). He just became unconscious because obviously, he isn't dead yet, so he can't see how Ariana and Harry get to -drum roll- _**the afterlife**_! Yeah. . . .

Yay, _An Ironic Title _is finally complete! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (well, actually more because some of the chapters were a pain in the ass to write XD). Anyway, I've put a poll up on my profile, asking whose was your favorite PoV in the story so if you want, cast your vote for it.

**Coming Soon:** I am next going to be working on a one-shot parodying the many different Remus pairings in fanfic (besides the canon Remus/Tonks) that is going (tentatively) to be called _Everybody Loves Remus_. Yeah, creative I know. I'm going to start work on it soon and hopefully it won't take too long to get up -knock on wood-.


End file.
